573    EDfl 


GIFT   OF 


JUST  MUSE 

and 
OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

MRS.  M.  McNAMAR 

(Copyright  1918  and  19 i 9) 


iVLcNAMARS,  PUBLISHERS 
COTTON  \vooo,  CALIF. 


t    4    * 
*   t 


INTRODUCT1VE 


VERSE. 


Then   permit   me   to   revel   in   the   wealth   of   all   verse, 

And  forbid  me  no  part  of  their   themes; 
For  the  poets  have  written,  their  thoughts  to  disperse, 

That  others  might  share  in  their  dreams. 
In   words   gracefully  framed   they   the   topic   define, 

With   soft  language  that   ebbs   and   flows; 
They   bear   me    away   on   the   bosom    of   rhyme 

To   the   land    of   Peace    and    Repose. 

Perhaps    it    may    be    in    the    majestic    lines 

Of   the    grand   old    masters    of   song; 
In   their  heavier   themes   that   my    spirit    finds 

Strength,   as   my   tranquil   mood   they   prolong. 
They   hold    sweeping    power,    my    mind    to    immerse. 

Like   the  tide  that  engulfs   where   it   flows; 
The}'  bear  me  away  on  the  billows  of  verse, 

To    the    land    of    Peace    and    Repose. 


I 

(2) 
JUST  MUSE. 


MIDNIGHT   UNDER   CALIFORNIA   SKIES 

J   sleep  and  I  dream — 
That  I  sail  the  sea  of  deepest  blue, 
Where  all  the  stars  are  mirrored  true. 
And  the  waning  moon  is  reflected  too 

From    the    depths    of    it  13    calm    still    face. 
On  this  sea  that  touches  no  cliff  or  shore, 
That  has  no  breakers  to  rock  and  roar, 
Like  a  phantom  my  ship  is  sailing  o'er, 

As  smoothe  as  if  gliding  through  space. 

- 

On  the  deck  I  repose  in  my  steamer  chair 
And  I  feel  the  touch  of  the  cool  night  ain 
As  I  view  the  fairy  like  scene  from  there, 

Through  the  masts  of  my  own  flying  bark. 
Other  phantom  ships  go  sailing  by 
With  never  a  sound  as  their  way  they  ply, 
And  never  a  message  or  a  signal  fly, 

As  they  go  seeking  some  distant  mart. 

i 
< 

Those  phantom  ships  are  all  white  or  gray, 
And  they  are  all  sailing  the  self  same  way, 
Not  one  of  them  lingers  or  cares  to  stay 

Her   speed   till   the   journey's    complete. 
But  my  ship  is  not  painted  white  or  gray, 
And  I  sail  in  the  opposite  way  from  they, 
Neither  do  I  tarry  or  pause  to  say 

One  word  to  that  flying  feet. 

? 

And  now  I  behold  a  wreck  on  the  deep— 

A  frail  little  bark  that  had  failed  to  keep 
Pace  with  the  other*  ships  of  that  fleet 

Disappeared  from  the   fairy-like   scene. 
But  another  great  ship  met  a  fate  much  worse, 
When,  heedless  of  danger,  she  steered  her  course 


(3) 

Right  onto  the   shorfes   of  a  rock  bound  coast; 
The   shock   startled  me  out  of  niy  dream. 

Ah!     It  wasn't  a  dream,  I  was  wide  awake, 
I  was  only  allowing  my  fancy  to  take 
Me  sailing  away  in  its  own  wild  wake, 

On  the  breast  of  the  midnight  breeze. 
The    sea,    in    my   fancy,   was   the   great   blue   sky, 
The  ships,  the  white  clouds  that  go  sailing  by, 
And  my  deck  chair,  the  cot  upon  which  I  He 

Out   under   my   own   fig   trees. 

The  masts  of  my  ship  was  a  giant  branch, 
The  sails  were  the  leaves  that  toss  and  dance. 
And  they  appear  the  part  in  the  careless  glance, 

That  it  pleases  my  fancy  to  give. 

That  rock  bound   coast  was   the  mother  cloud's  breast, 
Where  all  the  little  clouds  fly  to  rest, 
Now  long  before  this  I  know  you  have  guessed 

The  land  where  I've  chosen  to  live. 


HEAVENLY   GLIMPSES. 

Down  deep  in  the  blush  of  the  rose  I  see 
A  picture  from  another  world  given. 

I   cannot  decide  just  what  it  can  be, 
"Unless  'tis  the  sunrise  in  heaven. 

On  the  petals  of  the  lily  there  seems  to  gleam 

The  purity  of  immortal  things, 
Must  be  the  reflection   of  some  heavenly  scene, 

Perhaps   'tis  of  the  angels'  Wings. 

But  in  a  little  child's  smiling,  innocent  face 

Shines  a  vision  far  more  fair, 
Than  in  anything  else  of  terrestral  grace, 

For  heaven,  itself  is  imaged  there. 


LIFE'S  GREATEST   MOMENTS 

Life's  greatest  moments  spent  with  a  friend— 

With  some  dear  soul,  whose  musing  and  mediation  seem  to 

blend 

And  beat  in  harmony  with  those  of  our  own, 
As  a  sweet  song  and  its  melodious  chords  are  one  in  tone. 

Life's  dearest  moments  spent  with  a  friend— 

With    some    lovod    one    whose    sweet    companionship    seems 

to  lend 

Inspiration  of   soul   food  for  mated   minds, 
Our  thoughts  move  in  unison,  our  desires  one  in  kind. 

Life's   sweetest   moments   spent   with   a   friend- 
Some  loved  companion  we've  known  long  since,  or  then 
Perhaps  'tis  an  erstwhile  friend  who  feels 
This  atonement  of  spirit,  and  a  compact  of  fellowship  seals. 

Life's   choicest   moments   spent   with   a   friend- 
Just  a  day  or  an  hour  of  sweet  communion  that  trends 
To  lead  upward  and  onward  to  a  loftier  throne 
Of  inspiration  and  thought  than  we'd  reached  had  we  striven 
alone. 

Life's  greatest  moments   spent  with  a  friend- 
Seme   ne'r  forgotten  person   whose   fellowship   will    not   end 
With  parting  of  ways,  for  we've  lived  the  divine, 
And  deep  impressions  of  kindred  minds  are  not  subject  tc 
absence  or  time. 


TKUTH. 

Man,   in   his   unstable   building, 

Places  timbers  that  decay  and  fall; 
Nature   in  her   infinite   mercy, 

Drapes  and  shields  for  the  eyes   of  all. 
Man    wanders    apart    from    the    pathway 

That  leads  to  the  perfect  and  right; 
Truth,   divine,    silently   follows 

In  his  wake,  and  wipes  out  the  blight 


(5) 
THE  CAGED  LION. 

To   and  fro,   to  and  fro, 
Those  iron  bars  are  but  prison  walls; 

To  and  fro,  to  and  fro, 
The  great  out-doors  to  his  spirit  calls, 
In  his  solemn,  ceaseless  and  nervous  tread, 
He   seems  to  avoid   some  hidden   dread; 
He  is  all  unmindful  of  the  curious  throng, 
That  views   him   the   whole   day  long. 


TTp  and  down,  'round  and   'round, 
From  this  prison  he   longs  to  escape; 

Up  ar.d  down,  'round  .and  'round, 
Would  that  providence  could  ope'  the  gate. 
Can  any  who  look  at  him  fail  to  see 
That  he  was  never  meant  for  captivity; 
In  appeasing  the  restlessness  of  his  soul 
His  body  is  paying  the  toll. 

Out  in  the  free,  it  was  his  to  be, 
Without  caution  or  fear  he  walked  alone; 

Over  the  bramble,  and  over  the  lee, 
The  forest  trees  were  the  walls  of  his  home. 
And  he  ruled  that  home  in  all  majesty, 
None  ever  disobeyed  his  excellency; 
For  then  he  was  king  of  the  wonderful  wild, 
But  now  he  is  a  broken  exile. 

How  is  it  man  places  a  ban 
Upon  the  freedom  of  the  least  of  this  land? 

How  is  it  man  places  a  ban, 
And  defies  the  work  of  a  mightier  hand? 
Would  that  humanity  saw  no  pleasure  or  pease, 
Except  in  the  comforts  of  the  greatest  or  least, 
Would  that  forever  the  will  of  man 
Ceased  the  opposing  of  nature's  plan. 


(6) 
DEATH. 


With  his  poisonous  wand,  Death  sweeps  the  world  on  wings 

That  carry  him  swiftly,  and  far; 
Under  his  devastating  power  all  things  he  brings, 

His  presence,  no  region  can  bar. 
He   turns   toward   the  arid   plains  of   the   desert  wild, 

Some  victim  falls  at  his  quest; 
In  the  frozen  steppes  of  the  north  his  hands  have  defiled 

What  pleased  his  fancy  the  best. 

He  Is  an  unwelcome  visitor,  none  can  seek  to  evade, 

He  comes  at  noon,  at  night,  at  morn; 
The  seas-,  the  vales,  hills  and  mountains  are  his  to  invade, 

He  spots  a  victim  as  soon  as  'tis  born. 
He  dares  to  lay  hands  on  the  most  precious  things  we  hold. 

He  takes  a  little,  he  takes  our  all; 
We  ai^e  powerless  to  resist  him,  he  is  a  burglar  ^old, 

We,  ourselves,  must  come  at  his  call. 

No  lily  is  too  fair  and  lovely  for  his  deadly  clutch, 

No  flower  that  he  will  not  slay; 
No  palm  tree   so  high  and   stately  that  he   will  not   touch 

And  spoil  it  with  grim  decay. 
Yonder  hill  held  its  monument,  seemed  a  gift  of  time, 

From  its  destruction  all  would  refrain; 
Yet,  Death  laid  his  hand  e'en,  to  that  graceful  pine, 

And  the  cones  never  grew  again. 

Lo  in  his  ruthless  devastation  he  dared  to  touch 

Even  the  brow  of  the  Holy  Christ, 
The  very  earth  trembled  with  awe  that  he  darej  so  much. 

And  for  a  moment  that  touch  sufficed. 

But  it  was  the  prophets   of  old,  who,  in  their  \v:sdom   had 
said 

"Dissolution  the  Christ  shall  not  see" 
They  looked  and  beheld  Him — the  Christ  was  not  dead. 

But   He   lived— and   He   liveth   through   eternity. 


(7) 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life,"  sayeth  He — 

"I  am  victor  over  death  that  all  men  may 
Cometh  into  eternal  life  by  me," 

And  "My  word  shall  not  pass  away." 

Though   Death   has    despoiled   and   laid   waste   h5s   myriads 
of  things, 

In  the  Holy  Writ  this  promise  we  find 
That,  which  is  not  subject  to  his  venomous  sting 

Is  the  Immortal  Soul  of  mankind. 


MY  ADORABLE  NEICE  AND  HEE  BEAJJ 

-A  cozy  chair,  and   a  book,  of  the   story-land  kind, 
A  foot-stool  and  chocolates,  myself  all  resigned 
To  an  afternoon  "comfy"  by  a  raised  window  blind, 

To  rest,  read  and  dream  at  sweet  will. 
No,  not  at  sweet  will,  for  out  there  on  the  lawn 
Sits  two  happy  creatures,  as  fresh  as  day  dawn. 
Detracting  my  thoughts,  and,  oh,  how  I  long 

To  peek  over  the  window  sill. 

Desire,  always  persisive,  I  yield  to  the  will, 

A  scene  so  enchanting,  a  stone  heart  would  thrill, 

I  enjoy  and  admire,  till  perch  on  the  sill 

Comes  a  monster  with  eyes  of  green  hue. 
Out  there  my  niece  and  her  beau,   ('tis  her  very  first) 
In  their  isle  of  seclusion — what  villain  would  durst 
Break   into   that  haven  of  bliss,  all  unversed? 

But  the  monster's  obstructing  my  view. 

But  why  this  monster  at  all,  when  I,  too,  have  had 
All  the  pleasures  that  trend  to  make  the  heart  glad, 
And  honor  and  prestige — now  I  know  it  is  bad 

For  that  creature  to  be  sitting  there. 
Not  because  of  worldly  goods  those  two  children  own, 
For  they  sit  in  my  chairs,  on  my  lawn,  at  my  home, 
And  not  because  I  am  sitting  here  quite  alone: 

I'm  not  envious  of  a  friendship  so  fair. 


(8) 

The  truest  of  friends  have  always  been  mine, 
Nor  do  I  begrudge  that  pair  of  their  idle  time, 
Or  of  fairness  of  forms  or  faces  so  fine, 

I'd   not  covet  in   a  manner  so  tame. 
I  envy  not  that  boy  of  a   smile  justly  earned, 
Or  her  the  fend  one  that  he  gives  in  return, 
Ah  me!     It  is  wicked,  but  still  I  discern 

The  7n#onster  sitting  there  just  the  same. 

Another  stolen  glance,  and  there  now  comes  to  me 
The  reason  for  that  stab  of  mad  jealousy, 
Revealed  in  the  blushes  I  chance  to  see — 

Blushes  experience  will  never  improve. 
Blushes,  born  or  hearts  so  free  from  all  care, 
Before  sorrow  or  wisdom  has  had  any  place  there, 
But   innocence,   only,   of   the   young   and   the   fair. 

That  shyness   time   alone  will   remove. 

'Tis  the  joys  of  youth  that  I  see  in  each  face. 
Adorning  them  both  with  charm  and  with  grace, 
'Tis  the  felicity  time  will  so  swiftly  out  race, 

Seems  the  flight  of  my  own  was  all  wrong 
But  where  did  it,  when  did  it,  how  did  it  go? 
'Tis  another  mystery,  none  of  us  ever  will  know 
They  have  theirs  now.  my  adorable  niece  and  her  beau, 

I  look  again  and  the  monester  is  gone. 


"BIDE- A- WEE.' 

Suppose  I  should  be  called  on  a  journey, 

To  a  land  far  over  the  sea; 
There  would  be  no  joy  in  the  planning, 

If  none  say  to  me  "bide-a-wee." 
None  to  have  part   in  the   preparation, 

No  loved  one,  no  comrade,  no  friend; 
There  would  be  sadness  in  the  embarking. 

No  matter  how  pelasaut  the  end. 


(9) 

Or  if  I  should  sit  in  the  evening  tide, 

List'ning  to  bells  of  gray  twilight: 
There  would  be  no  melody  in  their  chiming, 

With  no  friends  to  wish  me  good-night. 
If  I  must  be  a  solitary  listener, 

The  bells  will  bring  feelings  forlorn; 
And  there  will  be  a  chill  in  the  twilight, 

No  matter  how  glorious  the  morti.  ?; 

Then  when  I  approach  the  autumn  days 

Of  this  one  fleeting  life  year; 
There  will  be  no  joy  in  the  yule-tide, 

If  no  loved  ones  hover  near. 
When  the  last  day  and  the  hour  cometh, 

There  will  be  an  uncertainty, 
If  no  dear  one  is  near  to  comfort  me, 

And  wish  me  a  "bide-a-wee." 

i 

Then  give  me  a  friend — a  companion, 

Who  will  watch  for  my  coming  bark; 
And  listen  for  the  bell  that  will  summons, 

When  the  twilight  succumbs  to  the  dark. 
There  will  be  no  sadness,  no  loneliness, 

In  the  close  of  that  day  for  me; 
With  a  dear  one  near  to  sustain  and   soothe, 

And   say   to    me   "Bide-a-wee." 


PEOPLE  WE  ALL  KNOW 

There  was  a  man  of  wonderful  successes, 
By  his   striving  he  had  won  a  great  name; 

The  world  shouted  his  story, 

It  wrteathed   him   with   glory, 
And  clamored  tc  share  in  his  fame. 
But  the  same  man  made  many  failure, 
Which,  to  the  world  were  all  unknown, 

Nor  did  any  one  care 

His  disappointment  to   share, 
Those  failures  were  all  his  alone. 


(10) 

A  lady,  Iby  her  deeds  of  great  kindness, 
Scattered  happiness  and  sunshine  abroad; 

At  her  feet  the  world  bowed, 

It  proclaimed  her  aloud. 
And  each  deed  it  made  haste  to  applaud. 
But  the  same  lady  met  a  great  sorrow, 
Which  shrouded  her  life  like  a  pall, 

The  world  claimed  no  part, 

In  the  brief  of  her  heart, 
Had  no  place  in  the  mourning  at  all. 

We  know  the  man  of  wonderful  successes, 

We  know  the  lady  of  good  deeds  well  done; 

And  they  both  have  (been  glad 

That   the   whole   world   has   had 
A  share  in  the  honors  they've  won. 
We  know  the  man  who  made  many  failures, 
We  know  the  lady  with  the  sorrows  unknown: 

Because    the    world    never    knew 

They  were  glad  of  that,  too, 
They   had    rather    suffer   the    trials    alone. 


WHAT'S  THE  USE 

I  have  an  honest  debt  to  pay 

What's  the  use? 
When  so  many  others  say 

What's  the  use? 
Just  to  have  no  man  to  fear, 
Just  to  keep  a  friend  sincere, 
Just  to  feel  my  conscience  clear; 

That's  the  iise. 
We  may  strive  to  do  the  right, 

What's  the  use? 
So  many  treat  it  light. 

So  what's  the  use? 
Just  to  know  we've  done  our  best, 
Just  to  feel  we've  stood  the  test, 


(11) 

Nor  am  I  satisfied  with  less; 
That's  the  use. 

I  "hitch  my  wagon  to  a  star," 

What's  the  use? 
It  may  never  get  me  far, 

So    what's   the    use? 
Though  my  dreams  I  never  realize, 
It  will  be  a  joy  to  strive 
For  the  highest  goal  or  prize; 

That's  the  use. 


THE  DESERT'S  OWN 

'Tis  a  place  not  meant  for  mortal  to  tread, 
"Wshere  man  has  stalked  without  fear  or  dread;        Tj 
Right  into  the  wild  and  wilderness  waste, 
And  strove  to  conform  himself  to  the  place. 
He  has  failed,  in  this  land  forgotten  by  God, 
Are  mysterious  paths  no  man  should  have  trod: 
And   though  he   may   strive   in   harmony   to   be, 
Never  a  part  of  the  desert  land  is  he. 

Foreign  to  him  is  that  shifting  sand, 
That,  at  the  whip  of  the  wind,  defaces  the  land; 
Covers  his  path  as  if  a  flood  had  surged, 
And  all  traces  of  land-marks  submerged. 
Resolation  and  drought  are  the  chief  of  charm, 
Excepting  the  mirage,  and  that  brings  him  harm; 
Consumates  death  in  the  bed  of  a  sunken  sea, 
And  gives  the  body  to  its  own  as  a  fee. 

But  what  is  its  own — what  belongs  to  this  waste? 
'Tis  a  thing  of  the  desert,  with  the  desert's  taste, 
Like  the  desert,  he  spots  his  prey  'ere  'tis  dead, 
Begins  destruction  soon  as  life-breath  has  fled, 
As  desolate  a  the  lands  are  his  dismal  howls, 
Over  the  arid  and   sun-baked   sands  he  prowls; 
In  the  heart  of  this  wasteful,  wilderness  wild, 
Lives  thf  coyote,  truly,  the  desert's  own  child. 


(12) 
MY  PLACE  IN  LINE 


Twixt  the  trend  of  the  ages  that's  vanished, 

And  the  ages  of  all  future  time; 
Comes  the  age  of  the  present,  I  wonder, 

Why  I'm  permitted  to  call  it  mine. 
Can  it  be  said  it  was  just  happening, 

To  he  brought  to  my  earthly  estate 
In  the  present,  instead  of  the  dim,  dim  past, 

Or  reserved  for  some  future  date. 

For  in  all  the  world  and  its  workings, 

As  it  majestically  moves  along; 
There  can  never  be  found  in  existence, 

One  atom  has  been  placed  awrong. 
Perfection  molded  in  all  its  immensity 

In  its  substance,  its  time  and  its  pose; 
Completed  in  thousands  of  details, 

As  a  leaf  is  complete,  or  a  rose. 

Like  the  chapter  unfolds  in  the  story 

Time  ushered  in  the  present  age, 
Among  its  innumerable  characters, 

I  am  a  dot  on  the  printed  page. 
But  a  dot  may  complete  some  sentence, 

(Nor  stationed  amiss  in  the  line) 
I,  too,  for  some  reason  am  given 

A  place  in  God's  plan  divine. 

So  whither  I  stand  with  the  greatest, 

Or  the  lowlier  place  falls  as  mine; 
I  am  part  of  the  wonderful  everything 

Planned  in  beginning  of  time. 
I  cannot  fail  to  see  the  magnanimity, 

At  its  consummation  my  soul  does  appall; 
Nor  will  I  fail  to  bow  down  and  worship 

The  Creator  and  Giver  of  all. 


(13) 
BLESSINGS,   THINE  AND   MINE 


There  is  a  light,  a  silvery  light, 

Coming  down  from  the  moon  in  the  silent  niglit; 

With  fairy  hands  it  touches  the  lands, 

And  scatters  the  gloom  from  the  sea; 

This  light  is  shining  for  me,  for  me, 

'Tis  shining  for  thee  and  me. 


There  is  a  note,  a  twittering  note, 
Flung  to  the  breeze  by  a  ruffled  throat; 
It  has  a  part  in  gladdening  the  heart, 
Perched  high  in  the  old  apple  tree; 
This  bird  is  singing  for  me,  for  me; 
'Tis  singing  for  thee  and  me. 

There  is  a  day,  a  lovely  day, 

It  may  come  in  mid-winter  or  balmy  May; 

A  jewel  in  line  set  by  Father  Time 

In  the  crowd  of  years  given  to  me  and  thee; 

'Tis  this  day  that  has  dawned  for  me,  for  me, 

This  day  that's  for  thee  and  me. 

The  flowers,  the  grasses  and  trees, 
The  rivers  and  mountains  and  seas, 

The  bees  and  the  birds, 

The  fields  and  their  herds, 
The    heavens    above, 
The  friends  that  we  love, 

The  rhythms  that  'rote 

Of  song  or  of  note, 

Or  just  the  laugh  of  a  child  in  its  glee, 
Are  some  of  God's  blessings  for  me,  for  me, 
God's  blessings  for  thee  and  me. 


(14) 
LOVE 

Like  the  flight  of  the  carrier  pigeon, 
A  messenger  has  flown  throughout  all  space; 

Into  remote  and  most  boundless  regions, 
And  there  was  never  a  halt  in  the  pace; 

Neither  did  it  return  from  the  distant  wanderings, 

Till  it  gleamed  for  man  the  secret  that  he  bade  it  bring. 

Like  he  tryst  of  the  carrier  pigeon, 
The  messenger  returned  from  a  distant  place; 

With  the  deepest  theme  of  a  mighty  religion, 
Snatched  from  a  pedestal  where  it  poised  in  space; 

This,  the  message,  gleaned  from  earth,  and  all  heav'n  above, 

That  the  greatest  thing  in  all  the  universe  is  love. 


THE    DESERT   RAT 
(The  quest  for  gold) 

He  was  a  prospector,  bronzed,  stiffened  and  thin, 

William  Baily,  his  common  place  name; 
"The  Desert  Rat"  was  the  "nick"  that  just  fitted  him, 

His  persistence  had  earned  him  the  same, 
And  although  "Bill"  was  now  well  up  in  years, 

He  still  heeded  the  lure  of  gold, 
Desert  life,  to  him,  held  no  terrors  or  fears, 

But  griped  with  a  grip  that  would  hold. 

In  the  fruitless  years  that  he'd  haunted  the  land, 

In  statue,  in  mind,  in  desire  he  grew 
To  be  typical  of  the  eternal  sand, 

His  vitality  as  enduring  too. 
Few  friends  were  his  and  fewer  he  sought, 

His  faithful  burro  was  the  most  true; 
He  cared  little  for  comforts,  for  pleasures  naught, 

As  he  traversed  the  desert  through. 


(15) 

Weeks  spent  in  the  heart  of  the  waterless  waste, 

With  the  Jinny  trudging  at  his  heels; 
Meager  his  wants,  and  more  meager  his  taste, 

Scanty  his  drink,  and  more  scanty  his  meals. 
Bill  saw  little  of  animal,  less  of  vegetable  kind, 

*Side-winders,  the  only  enemies  he'd  meet, 
Although  the  sun  beat  down,  he  did  not  mind 

When  sands  reflected  an  intolerable  heat. 

His  one  desire  was  the  desire  for  gold, 

That  mine — fabulous  wealth  he  must  find; 
The  incontrollable  lure  has  often  laid  hold 

And  destroyed  a  much  stronger  mind. 
Undaunted  by  failure  Bill  always  planned 

On  the  "luck"  he  would  "soon"  realize; 
But  the  coveted  treasure  always  just  beyond  hand. 

One  more  trip  and  he'd  land  the  prize. 

In  time  the  prospector  becomes  the  Desert  Rat. 

And  lose  his  ambition  or  change  his  will; 
He  would  still  remain,  but  he  deems  not  that 

The  desert  sands  would  know  him  still. 
It  has  power  to  charm  and  the  victim  hold, 

For  that  fascination  there  is  no  cure; 
The  Rat  may  count  it  but  the  passion  for  gold. 

The  desert,  itself,  has  become  the  lure. 

But  there  are  times  when  even  the  burro  will  fail 

Her  master,  and  refuse  his  fate  to  share: 
And  to  toll  her  away  from  the  unbeaten  trail, 

Moisture  scented  from — God  knows  where, 
Their  wanderings  led  farther  than  ever  before, 

When  the  prospector  chanced  to  look  back; 
A  deep  sand  wash,  bushes  of  sage,  nothing  more. 

Hiding  jinny  and  her  bunglesome  pack. 

*Side-winders  is  the  name  given  to  the  rattlesnakes  in  the 
southwestern  deserts  of  the  United  States. 


(16) 

"Hello!     Jinny,  stealin'  a  march  on  a  feller? 

An'  'tain't  like  ye,  ol'  gal,  not  a  bit; 
Desertin'  of  yer  pal,  an'  I  was  strikin'  a  color, 

But  I'll  find  ye,  now  don't  ye  fergit. 
No  wonder  the  ol'  gal  was  all  out  o'  sorts, 

Should  o'  give  her  a  drink,  while  ago, 
When  I  stopped  to  examine  them  specimans  o'  quartz, 

Come  to  think,  that  water  jug's  runnin'  low." 

"Never  mind,  now,  Jinny,  ye'll  be  livin'  in  clover, 

When — when — funny  I  dont'   see  her  tracks!" 
But  the  burro  heard  not,  she  was  staggering  over 

The  desert,  water  jugs  strapped  to  her  back. 
"Well,  I  reckon  I  can  find  ye,  things  lots  worse 

Happen  me  than  losin*  of  a  burro  like  you." 
And  'twas  odd  that  the  prospector  shifted  his  course 

Just  as  the  wind  would  be  shifting,  too. 

"Strange,  I  must  be  gettin'  mixed  up,  I  swear 

I  was  facin1  that  wind  'while  ago; 
Must  o'  turned  clean  'round  'stead  o'  half,  I  declare 

I'll  be  gettin'  daffy,  first  thing  I  know." 
There  were  hills  to  the  left,  and  hills  to  the  right, 

Two  rows,  as  like  as  two  rows  of  peas. 
And  the  floor  of  the  desert  under  the  glare  of  light, 

Unmarked,  as  the  breast  of  the  seven  seas. 

"To  them  that  ain't  got  no  sense  o'  direction, 

It  may  be  kind  o'  mysterious  like; 
You  bet  I've  got  it  all  down  to  perfection — 

Funny  Jinny  took  a  notion  to  hike." 
Comes  a  twinge  of  remorse  when  the  Desert  Rat  feels 

Perfect  knowledge  of  "where"  slipping  away; 
But  he  must  hasten  on  for  fate  often  seals 

A  destiny,  almost  in  a  single  day. 

Four  and  twenty  hours,  spent  in  the  unspeakable  heat, 
Without  drink,  man's  reason  hangs  by  a  thread; 


Now  the  prospector  had  rambled  far  off  his  beat, 

Tcttering  and  uncertain  was  his  tread. 
'•Ah,  come  on  now,  Jinny,  it's  time  for  a  drink, 

Here's  to  ye  fer  luck — What!   not  comin'  to  me? 
Oh!  I  recollect  now — I  can't  seem  to  think, 

An'  somehow  I  don't  seem  to  see." 

_,Ynd — "Ye  may  shift  where  ye  will,  ye  can't  get  me. 

No  difference  where  the  ol'  wind  blows; 
I  know  'bout  where  I  am,  yes — sir — ree. 

You  bet,  ol1  Bill  Baily  always  knows." 
But  the  prospector's  laugh  was  now  a  mere  cackle, 

His  gate  was  that  of  the  blind; 
Under  his  feet  the  baked  sand  crackled, 

He  was  wandering  like  in  his  mind. 

It  was  not  strange  that  one  with  an  eye  so  trained, 

Even  in  this  plight  should  recognize 
That  bronze-black  stone,  in  deep  yellow  stained, 

And  instantly  know  that  he'd  found  the  prize. 
A  frenzied  moment,  he  drove  his  pick  through  the  stone 

The    cry    of   "Gold!      Gold!"   fell    from    his    parching   lips; 
Those  fragments  of  rock  revealed  to  his  eyes  alone 

A  fortune.     "Ha!     I  knew  I'd  find  it  this  trip!" 

The  half  dazed  man  threw  himself  on  the  ground, 

Gathered  those  stones  in  his  trembling  hands; 
He  cuddled  them,  hugged  them,  laughed,  laid  them  down, 

Snatched  others  from  the  crumbling  sands. 
Staring  fixedly  at  them,  to  that  fever  mad  brain 

Those  specks  of  gold  became  as  stones  in  size: 
Those  stones  became  boulders,  and  again  and  again 

He  estimated  the  value  of  his  prize. 

Did  I  say  "fabulous  wealth?"  'Twas  beyond  the  man's  dreams 
Half  th.9  hillside  was  a  ledge  of  that  stone; 

For  this  the  Desert  Rat  had  givon  all,  it  seems 
For  a  moment  to  call  it  his  own 
But  the  second  day,  without  drink,  in  this  land 


(18) 

A  drop  of  water  is  more  than  nches  untold- 
But  the  desert  oaers  none,  it  gives  only  sand, 
And  taunts  with  its  treasures  of  :>,o-d. 

Now,  even  in  this  hour  of  physical  distress, 

Was  no  thought  that  he'd  lost  his  way: 
Withal  he  was  blinded  and  drunk  with  success, 

Heeded  not  the  price  he  was  soon  to  pay. 
With  a  body  so  strained,  the  mind  could  not  hold, 

It  wavered,  it  rested  on  a  brink, 
"Come  now,   Jinny.  I've   found   a   mountain   of  gold, 

!  can  buy — I  can — I'll  buy  us  a  drink." 

A  precious  stone  held  in  the   outstretched  hands 

"Come,  Jinny,  ye  can  have  a  few  sips," 
Then  the  stone  fell  to  the  ground,  a  handful  of  sand 

Was  conveyed  to  his  own  swollen  lips 
That,   too,    cast   aside,    for   a    beautiful   lake 

Appeared,  with  its  palm  studded  shore; 
With  a  struggle,  the  prospector  managed  to  take 

A  Step  toward  it,  then  beheld  it  no  more. 

"Ho.     I  don't  want   a  lake,  I'm  a  rich  man  now! 

I'll  buy  an  ocean,  eh,  Jinny,  jes  think- 
No'   I  remember  now,  I'm — you're  lost,  but  I  vow 

I'm  goin' — Jinny  I'll  give  ye  a  drink. 
An'  Hi  find  ye,  too.  jes  as  I  said  I  would 

Get  located  when  I  see  the  north  star; 
Ye'll  be  glad  too,  Jinny,  your  ol'  pal's  made  good. 

\   know  ye  haven't   strayed  very   far." 

A  last  feeble  step,  the  prospector  fell  with  a  cry 

Before  the   mountain   of  Lifelong  Desire; 
Though  Lethoan  depths  sparkled  where  e'er  he  cast  his  eye, 

It  soothed  not  the  thirst,  now  burning  fire. 
As  it  was  yet  high  noon  on  that  arid  plain. 

The  man  thought  of  his  burro  no  more; 
Nor  again  of  his  gold,  but  of  his  thirst  and  pain, 

And  in  the  moment  of  the  passing  o'er— 


(19; 

His  childhood  home,  its  fields  of  waving  grass, 

A  cottage,  his  mother  stood  in  the  door; 
'Twas   just  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the   long   dead   past, 

And  years  since  he'd  thought  of  it  before. 
Once  again  he  became  a  tired,  thirsty  child, 

Turning  to  mother,  who  would  know  his  need: 
Faithful  to  him,  but  now  she  not  even  smiled, 

She  was  silent  and  seemed  hardly  to  heed. 

It  was  odd  that  in  that  last  thought  he  would  see 

Kis  little  mug  in  her  outstretched  hand; 
But  it  was  the  irony  of  fate — perfect  mockery 

Sh?,  too,  offered  him  a  cup  of  sand. 
As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  low  hills  in  the  west 

The  shadow  crept  upon  a  corpse,  how  strange 
That   the   Desert   Rat   found   his   eternal   rest 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Funeral  Range. 

There  was   no  funeral,  that,   nor  the   following  day, 
For  the  desert  offers  no  shroud,  no  pall* 

It  softens  not  the  event  by  a  floral  display, 
There  is  just  death  and  oblivion,  that's  all. 

And  with  the  last  drawn  breath,  the  work  is  complete, 
The  monument  is   a  cactus,   straggling,  old: 

But  'twill  endure  for  ages,  and  at  the  prospector's  feet, 

A  broken  stone,  brilliant  with  settings  of  gold. 


IF  I  HAD  A  MILLION  BUCKS 


Well  now,  let  me  just  see  where  I  would  be 

If  I  should  drop  heir  to  a  million  bucks, 
Don't   think   that   I'd   cry   if   grand    "unkie"   should    die, 

For  by  that  he  would  pass  me  my  luck. 
I'd  go  in  for  a  spree,  one  grand  jubilee, 

Just  as  long  as  I  rattled  that  mon' 
My  pals  and  I,  we'd  sure  live  on  pie, 

And  you  bet  we'd  play  second  for  none. 


I'd  see  the  old  planet  and  all  there  is  in  it, 

Before  I  run  through  with  them  bucks; 
And  old  Johnnie  D.  would  have  nothing  on  me, 

For   I'd   ride — Overland,  De  Luxe. 
And  no  old  conduc'  could  hustle  me  up, 

Or  make  me  jump  quick  when  he  speels 
"All   aboard!"     Oh   fudge,   I'd   not  have   to   budge. 

I'd  own  the  old  palace  on  wheels. 

I'd  travel  by  boat,  the  biggest  afloat; 

Built  speedy  and  fitted  up  mighty  grand. 
With  a  fancy  saloon  and  a  big  dancin'  room, 

Servants,  sailors  and  a  classy  brass  band. 
And  no  old  sea  chap,  not  even  the  cap' 

Could  order  me  'round,  fore  and  aft, 
You  bet',  by  heck,  I'd  boss  the  old  deck, 

I'd  be  ownin'  the  whole  dog-goned  craft. 

I  only  would  go  to  the  classiest  show, 

"Big  hits"  of  the  season  I'd  see; 
And  them  smart  usher  guys,  a  lookin'  so  wise, 

Wouldn't  dare  to  say  "gallary"  to  me. 
That  Rockiebuilt  bunch  would  sure  get  a  hunch, 

And  off  up  the  stairs  they'd  scaddoodle, 
My  pals  I'd  treat  to  the  very  best  seat, 

And  we'd   take  up   the  whole  caboodle. 

I'd  order  some  diners  that  sure  would  be  winners. 

That  four  hundred  gang  I'd  outshine; 
And  up  at  the  Astor  they'd  hop  around  faster 

When  I  took  my  gal  up  there  to  dine. 
Just  as  long  as  my  dough  held  out  I  would  go 

For  a  high  old  time— but.  Oh  shucks, 
No  use  to  blow  for  there  ain't  no  show 

Of  me  gettinn'  them  billion  bucks 


(21) 
ETERNAL  DESIRE 


Up,   up  the  mountain  of  Eternal  Desire; 

With  its  shadow}',  winding  trail; 
A  pedestrian  will  stand  at  the  foot  and  aspire 

The  height  of  the  summit  to  scale. 
Solitary  is  the  peak,  lone  is  the  trail, 

Individul  the  one  to  admire; 
Then  start,  the  ascent,  and  never  be  content 

On  the  mountain  of  Eternal  Desire. 

At  first  it  rose  up,  just  a  smooth  little  hill, 

All  grasses  and  ferns  and  flowers; 
Then  the  pathway  led  through  a  thatch  by  the  rill, 

On  upward  neath  green  leafy  bowers. 
Al]  this  passed  through,  still  it  grew  and  it  grew, 

There  were  ledges  with  bramble  and  brier; 
When  that,  too,  is  climbed,  a  pause  but  to  find, 

What  a  mountain  is  Eternal  Desire. 

But  up  yonder  ahead  lies  a  pleasanter  solpe, 

And  to  reach  it  a  hastening  on; 
With  never  a  falter,  not  a  doubt  in  the  hope, 

That  the  summit  will  appear  before  long. 
The   trail,   tedious,   rough,   there's   crag   and   there's   bluff, 

Yet  none  was  ever  known  to  tire 
Or  to  tarry  or  stay,  or  to  fall  by  the  way 

On  the  mountain  of  Eternal  Desire. 

One  more  ruggod  steep  to  be  mounted  with  might, 

One  more  terraced  slope  comes  to  view. 
Life-long  the  ascent,  inaccessible  the  height. 

Scenes  along  the  path  ever  new. 
But  the  trail  is  lost  when  the  rivers'  to  be  crossed, 

Not  till  then  will  ambition  retire; 
Death — the  river  that's  found  to  be  flowing  around 

The  base  of  the  mountain  of  Eternail  Desire. 


A   COMRADE,   TRUE 


Tensed,  and  faces  drawn  with  emotion, 

The  little  group  stood  on  the  front  walk; 
There  were  only  a  few  moments  left  them, 

But  it  seemed  difficult  to  talk. 
Dear  daddy,  so  proud,  but  now  thoughtful, 

To  clasp  tightly  the  hand  of  his  boy; 
And  then  came  his  dear  little  mother, 

He,  the   light  of  her  life   and  her  joy. 
And  sister,  she'd  forgotten  his  teasings, 

She  now  beheld  him,  a  hero  grand; 
And  little  Joe,  how  he,  too,  longed  to  go. 

Endless  years  before  he'd  be  a  man. 
All  gathered  to  say  a  fond  farewell 

To  the  tall  soldier  boy  so  fair; 
And  one  other — but.  no,  he  could  not, 

At  least  not  right  then,  or  there. 

As  the  lad  turned  aside  in  departing, 

They  all   strove  their  emotion  to  hide; 
But  Jack  receiving  no  farewell   pat 

Took  his  place  at  his  masters'  side. 
"Here,  Jack    Here,  Jack!     You  come  right  back! 

See  here  now,  you  must  not  go!" 
Those   moments   had   been   such   trying   ones 

Nobody  could  speak  but  Joe. 
The  old  dog  halted  reluctantly, 

Then  looked  into  his  master's  face, 
No  word — in  wisdom  the  answer  sensed, 

He  proceeded  to  move  on  a  pace. 
"No,  Jack!     Now  you  must  stay  right  here!" 

Jack  marched  on  like  a  soldier  grand; 
He  took  orders  from  no  "subordinate," 

When  a  "superior"  was  in  command. 

On  down  the  path,  dog  and  master 


(23) 

\Vjalking  so  briskly,  just  those  two; 
And  the  reason  of  the  master's  silence 

None  but  the  little  mother  knew. 
As  the   gate   clanged   too   behind  them, 

The  boy  felt  never  a  doubt  or  a  fear; 
Nor  thought  that  it  had  closed  forever 

Upon  himself  and  his  loved  ones  dear. 
On  down  the  dusty  road  he  hastened, 

In  the  t^ars  he  could  no  longer  hide; 
Nor  did  he  care,  there  was  none  to  see  them  nf;w 

Only  Jack,  pacing  along  at  his  side. 
So  it  has  ever  been  in  all  history, 

A  man  facing  his  fellow  man, 
Will  stifle  all  semblance  of  weakness, 

But  old  Jack  hi;  would  understand. 

They  turned  the  curve,  then  passed  from  view, 

And  a  full  twenty  minutes  had  flown 
Ere  the  poor  old  dog  came  sauntering  back, 

Again   appeared   at   the   saddened   home. 
As  he  came  up  the  path  the  bright  sunlight 

Fell  full  on  his  big  shaggy  ears 
There  was  glistening,  something  like  crystals, 

That  was  made  by  the  falling  of  tears. 
Happened  it  Jack  hadn't   shaken  them   off, 

But  they  had  clung,  like  drops  of  dew; 
None  but  the  little  mother  saw  them  there, 

And  none  but  the  little  mother  knew. 
Jack  sought  hip.  place  'mong  the  shady  vines, 

Very  soon  he  was  fast  asleep; 
All  unconscious  that  he  had  revealed 

The  secret  his  master  wanted  to  keep. 

When  the  sun  hung  low  o'er  the  western  hills 
Jack   roused,    sauntered    down    to    the    gate, 

The  usual  place  for  waiting  his  master, 
Came  he  early  or  came  he  late. 

But  this  time  the  master  did  not  return. 
And  it  was  just  a  year  and  a  day 


(24) 

Till  they  received  the  sad,  sad  message 

Saying  their  loved  one  had  gone  to  stay. 
They  ceased  the  waiting  and  watching, 

They  grieved  but   each  of  them  knew 
That   old   Jack   was   vigilantly  keeping 

A  compact  made  by  comrades  true; 
When  down  by  the  gate  he  takes  his  place 

And  will  each  evening  to  his  dying  day, 
He  is  waiting  the  return  of  his  master, 

And  nobody  ever  calls  him  away. 


WHAT'S  TRUMPS 


In  the  contest  around  the  table 
"What's  trumps"  is  the  question  asked, 
"What's  trumps"  is  all  important, 
In  this  world's  gigantic  task. 


In   which   clubs   represent   law,   hearts   represent   love 
diamonds   represent   money   and    spades    represent   labor. 

I  am  clubs — I'm  trumps- 
I  have  reference   not  to   such   little   things 
As  decks  of  cards  with  queens  and  kings, 
But  of  a  power  that  holds  and  sways 
A  people  to  its  stringent  ways. 

I   am   law  for  subjects   all, 

I  send  for  them  at  my  beck  and  call. 

Whether  of  state,   religion,  home   or   school, 

'Tis  law  that  wields  controlling  rule. 
Law,  by  right  and  honor  bound, 
Stretching  the  whole  world  around. 
No   difference   of   what   race   or   clime, 
I  am  the  club  that  whips  thinks  into  line. 

Respect  me!     King  of  Clubs  is  trumps. 


(25) 

Nay,  nay,  King  Clubs,  I'm  hearts!     I'm  trumps- 
What  ctlier  power  has  ought  to  say 
When  hearts  are  holding  sway? 

I  cpeak  of  love,  of  tenderness; 

All  the  world  I've  sought  to  bless; 

And  a  people  heeded  me 

Before  law  or  state  aspired  to  be. 
It  was  ev3ii  through  my  just  dictations 
That  law  and  rule  bees  me  creations; 
And  at  my  bidding  both  have  tumbled, 
Into  dust  their  castles  crumbled. 
I  am  a  higher  power,  but  I  place  no  bans, 
I  murmur  not,  make  no  demands. 
Greater  I  than  court  or  king, 
I  simply  to  the  abstract  cling. 

I'm   Queen  of  Hearts,   I  rule  the   world. 

Honor  me — I'm  trumps. 

I  am  diamonds — I  am  trumps — 

Diamonds,  though  such  little  things, 

\Ylist  a  weight  of  prestige  brings. 
I  speak  of  concentrated  wealth, 
And  I  rule  the  world  by  stealth. 
In  tbis  glittering  soul  of  mine 
The  very  essence  of  "value"  shine. 
And  no  man  as  yet  has  turned  me  down, 
Not  even  for  love  of  state  or  crown. 

Law — what  is  law?    Who  has  not  decerned 

That  'tis  merchandise  when  I'm  concerned? 

For  the  vehicles  cf  law  I've  bought 

And  sold,  without  a  thought. 

And  the  populace  is  not  deceived 
If  value  is  not  received 

Yea.  even  good  Queen  i-3'earta  has  fell 

Before  my  dazzling  spell 

Forgotten  her  own  just  precepts. 

Yvh3ii  our  pathways  intercept, 

Wit.'i  low  and  love  7  "play  the  douce," 

I  appropriate,  without  excuse 


(26) 

Their  ideals  for  abase   or  use. 
Diamonds,  -whether  great  or  small, 
Hold  the  highest   gcal  of  all. 
Attention!      I   am   trumps. 

1  am  spades — I'm  trumps— 

I  speak  of  toil,  back  to  the  soil — 

A  slogan  that's  forever  droned, 

But  a  foolish  people  was  ever  known 

To  follow  preempts  of  such  lowly  cast, 

Jr-  loftier  themes  they  have  amassed 

Though  law  or  love  or  wealth  may  rule, 
I — spades,  have  been  the  despised  tool 
"Vet,  patiently  I've  bid  mv  time, 
Nor  have  I  been  of  idle  mind; 
For  diligently  I've  dug  the  graves 
Of  all  the  world's  most  esteemed  braves. 
While  man  has  scorned  my  low  estate, 
I've  plodded  on,  but  now  of  late — 
Guided   by  the  human  hand, 
I've  dug  trenches  for  most  every  Innd 

That  law  may  exist,  that  hearts  may  beat, 
Money  now  lies  at  my  feet. 
I've  labored  long  without  a  sign, 
But  now  men  hear  my  age  old  cry. 
They  scoff  not  at  the  way  I've  trod 
They  embrace  me  now  and  turn  the  sod; 
That  a  vine,  a  tuber,  a  stalk  might  grow. 
And  the  hungry  nations  know 
The  comforts  of  a  full  repast, 
Lo  I'm  conqueror  at  last. 

Salute  me.   I  am  spades.  Ace  high! 


(27) 

DOWN  DEEP  IN  THE  WOODS 


AMONG  THE  PINES 

There  is  a  quietness  there  that  I  love — 
And   it  isn't  because   the  birds  do  not  sing 
As  cweetly  as  can  be  through  al  Ithe  long  spring, 
It  isn't  because  the  bees  do  not  hum, 
The   nightingale   trill,   or   the   woodpeckers   drum; 
It  isn't  because  the  squirrels  do  not  chatter, 
As  on  whirring  wings  the  quail  will  scatter; 
It  isn't  because   there  is  no   cooing  dove, 
For  song  conies  both  from  the  earth  and  skies  above- 
The  cricket  is  low,  but  the  eagle  flies  high, 
And  from  perilous  heights  resounds  his  cry; 
There  is  all  this  to  charm  and  I  wonder  why 
There  is  a  quietness  there  that  I  love. 

There  is  a  quietness  there  that  I  love — 

And  it  isn't  because  the  leaves  do  not  fall 

And   rurtle   response   when  the  breezes   call: 

It  isn't  because  the  brook  is  still, 

For  all  day  long  there's  the  drip  of  the  rill; 

It  isn't  because  there  is  no  fairy  tap 

Of  the  rain  drop  as  it  falls  on  the  leafy  mat; 

And  it  isn't  because  the  herds  do  not  low 

Through  all  the  long  evenings  when  soft  winds  blow; 

And  the  same  winds  waft  sweet  music  to  me, 

'Tis  a  gentle  moan  from  those  lofty  trees, 

All  this,   and  I  wonder  how   it  can  be 

There  is  a  quietness  there  that  I  love. 

There  is  a  quietless  there  that  we  love — 
High  up  in  the  mountains  among  those  pines, 
'Tis  a  blessing  to  come  and  linger  a  time, 
In  this  heav'n  given  spot  for  a  tired  mind, 
Where  we  leave  earthly  trials  and  woes  behind. 
Here  we  escape  the  rush  of  a  weary  throng 
That  throttles  and  jostles  the  years  along; 


(28) 

We  forget  the  future,  the  past  lies  dead, 
We  live  the  fullness  of  the  "now"  instead; 
Here  among  these  hills,  magnificently  dressed, 
In  the  splendors  of  forest  nature  did  her  best, 
We  can  stroll  at  will  or  we  pause  and  rest, 
For  there's  a  quietness  there  that  we  love. 


THE    ASPEN    LEAVES 

Oh,  ye  glimmering,  shimmering,  shining  things, 
Suspended  in  air  by  your  fiber  strings; 
You  are  tremenlous  with  unrest  all  the  day  through, 
Was  anything  ever  as  unstable  as  you? 

All  powerless   to  resist  the  least  pressure  brought, 
How  you  vibrate  with  life   if  any  is  wrought; 
You  are   the   soul   of  vivacity  through   and   through, 
Was   anything   ever   as   high   strung   as   you? 

You  delight  to  respond  to  the  least  breath  of  air, 
And  impatient  with  the  bonds  that  holds  you  there; 
You   are    impulsive,    sensitive   and   nervous   too, 
Was  anything  ever  as  emotional  as  you? 

Inactivity  or  calmness  your  heart  never  knows, 
You  court  agitation,  you  shun  all  repose; 
Nothing  is   like  you   unless  it  may  be 
The   throbbing,   eager  masses  of  humanity. 

As  I  sit  in  admiration,  a  sad  mishap- 
One  of  those  leaflets  fell  prone  into  my  lap; 
The  bree-ze  became  angry  because  they  annoyed, 
And  smote  with  a  lash  that  destroyed. 

T  was   sorry  that  a  thing  that  had  lived  so  intense 
Should  be  thus  stricken  down  and  never  hence 
Respire  again  the  life  passionate  breath, 
Surely  it  was  an  untimely  death. 


(29) 

But  I  lock  for  the  vacant   place  on   the   tree, 
I  discover  none,  neither  do  I  see 
One  single  companion  of  that  fallen  leaf 
That  has  refrained  from  levity  for  grief. 

And  that,  too,  is  like  the  great  humanity- 
After  all  'tis  as  nature  willed  it  should  be; 
For  death  whether  in  season  or  an  untimely  decease, 
Is  naught  but  the  wisping  away  of  an  aspen  leaf. 


THE  SONG  OF  ALL  SONGS 

In  the  hush  of  the  evening  I  sit  by  my  door, 

As  the  sun.  drops  over  yon  hill; 
My  hands  are  now  idle,  for  the  day's'  work  is  o'er, 

And   the   stress  of   all   labor  is   still. 
I  long  for  something  simple,  my  mind  to  enthuse, 

Something  peaceful    and   soothing  and   calm; 
In   the   quiet   of   the   hour   there   comes   to   amuse 

A  little   songster,   and   he  sings   an   odd   song. 
'Tis   the   hallowing   tones   of   the   gray   whippowii, 

In   regularity   and   with   reverence   his   call 
Rings  over  the  vale  or  the  crest  of  the  hill, 

The  benediction  of  the  day  seems  to  fall. 
Some  say  he  is  sad  and  he  makes  them  feel  lonely, 

Like  their  happiness  had  met  some  defeat; 
But  not  so  with  me,  he  brings  to  me  only 

A  feeling  that's  peaceful  and   sweet. 
Though  melancholy  is  his  theme,  'tis  in  sweet  accord 

With  the  setting  of  place  and  of  time, 
If  he  sings  for  a  reason  he  finds  his  reward 

When  the  echo  comes  back  like  a  chime. 
He  sings  the  broken  chords,  'tis  in  a  broken  scale 

That  the  accompaniment  is  set  to  his  song; 
'Tis  the   tinkling  of  bells,   it   seems   they   never   fail 

To  join,  and  the  soft  rhythm  prolong. 
They  retire  from  the  scene  with  the  coming  of  the  moon, 

And  as  their  last  pathetic  tones  are  gone, 


(30) 

I  feel  that  evening  bells  play  the  tune  of  all  tunes, 
The  whippowil  sings  the  song  of  all  songs. 

Then  a  little  later  when  the  dark  has  closed  down, 

And  those  tinkling  bells  are   all   still; 
When  the  deeper  shadows  have  fallen  all  'round, 

And  hushed  is  the  whippowil; 
Then  another  songster  comes  onto  the  stage, 

Solemn  and  profound  is  the  song  he  sings; 
He  is  accurate,  devout,  his  voice  hollow  as  with  age, 

And  to  the  deep  minor  keys  he  clings. 
Sung  in  the  baso  clef  the  song  is  not  light, 

It  tells  of  the  sad  and  the  grave; 
It  belongs  to  the  dark,  it  is  part  of  the  night, 

Seems  it  echoes  through  the  vaults  of  a  cave. 
As  the  songster  delves  to  the  deepest  of  themes, 

Tis   a  dirg  that  he   sings   without  tune; 
And  down  in  my  soul  I  feel  that  he  means 

To  remind  me  of  death  and  the  tomb. 
The  accompaniment,  too,  seems  weird  and  old, 

For  'tis  played  by  the  breath  of  the  winds; 
It  is  softened  by  use,  for  through  ages  untold 

It  has  blown  through  the  trunks  of  the  pines. 
Now  it  rises  to  a  pitch  in  a  grand  prelude, 

Now  it  sinks  to  a  wail  or  a  moan; 
'Tis  wonderfully  harmonious  with  the  songsters'  mood, 

The  sounds  mingle  in  marvelous  atone. 
As  they  touch  the  deep  chords  of  the  nocturn,  there     looms 

Before  me,  visions  of  things  long  agone; 
Then  I  think  that  the  winds  play  the  tune  of  all  tunes, 

And   the   owl   sings   the   song  of   all   songs. 

As  the  last  doleful  sound  of  that  dirge  dies  away, 

A  wealth  of  melody  comes  to  my  ear; 
Some   silvery   tongued    songster   in   his   beautiful    lay, 

Softly,    sweetly,   yet   wonderfully   clear. 
In  the  light,  the  fantastic,  the  fairy-like  strains 

rTis  pure  rhythm  that  falls  on  the  air; 
The  very  essence  of  harmony  is  in  the  refrain, 


(31) 

The  warbler's  notes  are  select  and  rare. 
In  the  choicest  of  senates  he  seems  to  delight, 

He  is  eloquent  to  the  extreme, 
He  is  enchanting,  yet  retiring,  his  fancy  takes  flight 

In  only  the  sweetest  of  themes. 
With  the  cool  balmy  night  he  is  fully  in  tune, 

And  he  sings  his  most  charming  lay 
In  unaccented  measures,  he  seems  to  commune 

With  the  spirit  of  the  departed  day. 
The  murmuring  brook   plays  the   solo  part, 

By  it  the  gentle  chorister  is  led; 
It  commands  the  list'ner.  'tis  a  master  of  the  art. 

And  the  harp,  its  own  pebbly  bed. 
It  dashes   off   the  variations   in  various   styles, 

It   ripplf-s    through   the   measures    with   east; 
Even    the   blithe    little    singer   it   charms   and    beguiles. 

Shrewdest   critics,   such   classic   would   please. 
My  entertainers  have  chased  away  all   the   gloom 

Of  the  night,  and  they  to  their  rest  have  gone; 
Then   I  know  that  the  brook  plays  the  tune  of  all   tunes, 

And  the  nighingale  sings  the  song  of  all  songs 


THE  CONTEMPTIBLE  LITTLE  THING 

Two   lovers   wandered,    they   parlied    and    pondered 

Along  the  pathway  that  led  through  the  wood; 
As  true  lovers  always  find  they  have  plenty  of  time, 

They  loitered  as  true  lovers  should. 
He  was  somewhat  confused  for  fear  she'd  refuse 

If  the  all  important  question  he'd  ask; 
For  any  man  to  propose  it  is  hard,  goodness  knows, 

But  for  this  one  'twas  a  terrible  task. 
She  was  so  prepossessing,  'twas  high  time  he  was  pressing 

His  suit,  there  was  a  chance  that  he'd  lose  her; 
Tho  he  couldn't  make  haste,  he  showed  excellent  taste 

When  he  decided  in  his  heart  that  he'd  choose  her 
But  excited?    Not  she,  she  was  calm  as  could  be, 

Seemed  she  was  never  ruffled  in  her  life; 
Her  composure  was  inspirable,  it  made  her  so  desirable, 


(32) 

What  a  deligtful  characteristic  in  a  wife! 
She  had  a  wealthy  of  brown  hair,  her  face  was  so  fair, 

He  knew  there  was  no  powder  or  paint; 
Her  eyes,  dreamy  blue,  her  name,  suggestive  too, 

For  "Cecelia"  could  be  applied  to  a  saint. 
Her  smile  was  all  sweetness,  she  was  a  model  of  neatness, 

Justly  proud,  and  quite  fastidious  you  see; 
And  as  for  her  dress,  it  was  model  de  less, 

WJhich  means  the  neck  was  cut  clown  in  a  vee. 
She  was  modest  and  meek.,  and  whenever  she'd  speak 

Her  voice  was  low  and  somewhat  sympathizing, 
And  because  of  that  vee:  the  lover  could   see 

A   throat  and   a   chest  that   was   most  tantalizing. 
Her  hand,  dimple  and  white,  so  slender,  seemed  quite 

As  if  they  had  only  the  strength  of  a  child; 
With  her  grace  and   dignity,  there   was   no   wonder  that  he 

Was  in  love  with  this  maiden  so  mild. 
In   a   cool   and   shady   grott   was   surely   the    spot, 
With   a   green   mossy  bank   for   a   seat; 

A  made  to  order  back,  was  a  log  and  alack. 
This    lover   was   now   ready    to    speak. 
He   was   trembly   as   could   be,   but    (a   glimpse   of   that   vee) 

He  ventured — "Dear  Cecilia  T  love  you, 
If  you  will  be  mine  I'll  worship  at  your  shrine, 

This   world   will   hold   nothing   above   you — 
He  was  pausing  for  breath,  when  a  look  most  like  death 

Came  over  the  maiden's  fair  face; 
No  dreaminess  there,  but  a  maniac  staro 
That  recorded  no  person,  no  place. 
He  hadn't  ment  to  offend,  he'd  apoligise,  but  then 

Behold  the  poor  girl  had  gone  mad; 
And  right  at  the  time  when  he'd  managed  to  find 

Courage  to  tell  of  his  love — how  sad 
She  leaped  to  her  feet,  she  was  white  as  a  sheet, 
As  if  suddenly  possessed  by  a  spell; 

A  soft  voice,  have  I  said?     She  near  raised  the  dead 

When  she  let  out  that  ear  splitting  yell. 
In  maddening  haste  she  began  to  tear  her  waist 


(33) 


Gone  her  dignity,  her  meekness  and  repose 
Any  one  could  see  she  was  crazy  as  could  be, 

For  she  ripped  off  part  of  her  clothes. 
"What's  the  matter,  dear  child,  you're  acting  most  wild7 

Do  tell  me  for  goodness  sakes! 
I  an  here,  don't  you  see?    Don't  undress  before  me! 

Tell  me,  have  you  been  bitten  by  a  snake?" 
He  tried  to  hold  her  hand,  but  she  managed  to  land 

A  terrific  blow  on  the  side  of  his  nose; 
That  hand  though  so  slender  was  a  capable  defender, 

Who'd  ever  dream  she  could  strike  such  a  blow? 
She  continued  to  scream  in  a  manner  that  seemed 

'Twould  penetrate  for  miles  around; 
In  the  stress  and  turmoil  her  hair  loosed  from  the  coil 

And  some  of  it  fell  to  the  ground. 
Her  raving,  terrible  to  witness,  'twas   surely  not  fitness 

For  the  companion  to  be  obliged  to  survey; 
Through    pure    modesty,    respect    and    courtesy 

To  avoid  her  ill  conduct  he  turned  away. 
I'm  not  casting  reflections  when  I  say  her  complection 

Was  badly  smeared,  and  she  stood  in  a  daze; 
When  fiinally  the  calm  fell  like  a  balm, 

A  sorry  sight  met  the  young  lovers  gaze. 
"Heavens.    Never   again."    thought   he — but    then 

On  her  face  such  a  dejected  look; 
Love  and  consideration  when  he  saw  the  pi:  vocation 

Of  her  plight,  a  new  aspect  things  took. 
Now,  as  the  question's  arose,  what  do  you  suppose 

Was  the  cause  of  all  that  commotion? 
A  little  green  frog  that  had  sat  on  a  log 

Became  inspired  by  that  lover's  devotion. 
And  now  you  will  know  that  froggie  wasn't  as   slow 

As  that  lover,  and  too,  you'll  agree 
That  it  was  most  very  rude  for  him  to  intrude 

By  hopping  down  into  that  vee. 


(34) 
THE    CHIPMUNKS 

I  take  my  book  and  stroll  down  the  glade, 
I  settle  myself  in  some  spreading  shade. 
But  ere  my  thoughts  to  my  story  have  gone, 
A  little  visitor  comes  scampering  along. 

Up  over  the  log  it  pokes  two  tiny  ears, 
Then  a  soft  little  bunch  of  fur  appears; 
With  stripes  of  gray  and  brown  and  black 
All  running  lengthwise  down  its  back. 

Now  on  her  haunches,  primly  erect, 
My  least  sound  or  motion  her  eye  will  detect; 
Therefore  I  am  silent,  I  want  her  to  stay, 
If  I  move  she  will  scurry  away. 

Ah!    now  you   see   me,   I   couldn't   fool   you, 
And  here  comes  your  mate  he  is  a  wise  one  too. 
But  he  has  no  stripes,  he's  all  gray  but  his  head, 
And  that  bigger  and  round  and  red. 

They  both  chatter  and  sauce  as  if  plainly  to  say 
"See  here,  now  Missus,  you  go  right  away," 
And  by  their  curt  actions  I  know  well  and  good 
I'm  not  wanted  'round  this  neck  of  the  wood. 

Mrs.  Chipmunk  she  scolds  in  her  most  terrible  way, 
And  Mr.  Chipmunk  he  sanctions  all  she  has  to  say; 
But  if  the  were  half  as  brave  as  they  think  they  are 
Surely  neither  would  stay  away  quite  so  far. 

"But  now  Mrs.  Chipmunk,  remember  that 
If  I  could  catch  you  I'd  give  you  a  real  love  pat, 
And  you  too,  Mr.  Chipmunk,  but  I  know  you'd  resent, 
For  to  receive  love  pats  you  never  was   meant. 


(35) 

A  flip,  a  leap  and  a  bound  he  is  gone, 

Another  flip  and  a  leap  and  she  follows  along. 

Says  I  to  myself,  as  I  sit  in  the  shade 

"They're   the   most   cunning   things    God    ever    made." 


THE    1>EER 

He  is  as  swift  as  an  Indian  arrow, 

He  is  as  lithe  as  a  willow-reed. 
He  is  as  graceful  as  any  sparrow, 

Beauty  is  his  so  fate  has  decreed. 
He  is  as  timid  as  any  lambkin, 

He  is  as  harmless  as  any  dove; 
Yet  he  flees  like  a  frightened  birdling 

From  the  hand  that  would  give  him  love. 

He  is   nimble,   sure-footed   and  hardened 

To   the   pathless  way  he  pursues; 
Through  he   would   grace   any  park-way   or   garden 

Solitudes  of  the  wilds  he  will  choose. 
In  his  own  state  he  is  chiefest  of  rangers, 

The  mountain  or  plain  knows  his  tread; 
In  all  nature  he  fears  not  a  danger, 

Though  a  creg  or  a  cliff  be  his  bed. 

A  thousand  years  has  been  his  to  ramble, 

A  thousand  years  has  been  his   to  roam, 
Over  mountain  or  meadow  or  bramble, 

Throught  the  haunts  of  his  God  given  home. 
He  has  withstood  the  torrents  that  rages, 

He  has  weathered  the  heat  or  the  storm; 
His  kind  has  come  down  through  the  ages, 

'Twas  God's  plan  that  none  do  them  harm. 

But  what  is  his  aim  or  his  mission? 

I  search  and  the  answer  I  find; 
In  this  world  he's  to  fill  a  position, 


(36) 

Be  a  feast  for  the  eyes  of  mankind. 
Then  why  not  leave  him  to  his  duty. 

Why  don't  man  respect  him  I  say? 
Admire  him  alone  for  his  beauty, 

And  not  seek  him  to  slaughter  and  slay. 

THE  BROOKLET 

"The   brooklet  and   I   are   friends,"    say   I, 
Now  me  thinks  T  hear  that  wee  voice  which  provokingly  will 

say — 
"How  be  it,  for  age  is  old  and  grim  but  youth  is  young  and 

gay 

How  can  a  thing  of  youthfulness  care  to  court  or  pay 
Friendship  to  a  thing  of  age,  'tis  a  mystery  I  pray? 
When  one  revels  in  happiness  the  other  always  sad,  forlorn; 
The  one  breathes  out  h'ls  gladness,  the  other  seemingly  lives 

to  mourn, 

And  the  youth  is  ever  laughing  but  the  aged  will  only  scorn: 
And  no  harmony  between  the  two  is  e'er  conceived  or  born." 
"But  the  brooklet  and   I   are  friends!,"  say  I. 

"Ah,  the  brooklet  and  you  are  friends,  you  say7 
And  yet  a  thousand  years,  or  more,  perhaps,  to  him  has  coine 

and  gone 

Since  the  brooklet,  in  his  infancy,  sang  his  youthful  song, 
And  mimicked  much  or  scoffed   at  them— the  countless 

teaming    throng 
That    tread  his    banks  or    loitering    played    where  he  gaily 

speeds  along. 
Yet  the  brooklet  and  you  are  fiiends?     Ah  me,  good  friends 

you,  for  sooth — 
And   long,   long   since   he's  had   his   age   and   you  still  have 

your    youth. 
Don't  let  him  mock  or  tantalize  or  court  or  speak  you 

smoothe, 
His  tones  are  highly  bewitching,   but  his   flattery   holds   no 

truth." 
"But   the   brooklet   and   I   are   friends,"   say   I. 


(37) 

Yes  the  brooklet  and  I  are  friends — good  friends, 

'Tis  to  him  I  go  if  1  feel  a  dread  or  the  day  is  sad  and  drear. 

As  yet  his  soothing  has  not  failed,  he  bid  me  be  of  good  cheer: 

Or  if  I  know  the  gayer  hours  he  too,  will  lend  an  ear, 

He  gives  to  all  my  changing  moods,  he  '.is  a  friend  sincere. 

"A  friend  sincere  indeed — "  again  that  wee  small  voice  finds 

vent, 
"And  all  these  years  have  idly  flown,  in  foolish  prattle  his 

life  is   spent. 
Now  he  is  old,  but  you  are  young,  take  not  his  motto  of  poor 

intent, 

His  time  is  waste,  but  the  future  yours,  employ  it  for  better- 
ment." 
"But   the    brooklet   and    I    are    friends,"    say   I. 

Yes,  the  brooklet  and  I  are  friends — true  friends. 
And  to  this  friend,  for  council  I  deem  it  a  privilege  to  go, 
How  oft'  I  seek  his  confidence,  'tis  comforting  to  know 
That  I  have  one  of  such  ability  and  experience,  for  lo 
A  thousand  years  he  has  conciled  others  in  his  cetseless 

ebb  and  flow 

True,  he  has  his  age  and  I,  have  yet  my  period  of  time, 
His  voice  is  still  all  cheerfulness,  I  heed  his  merry  rhyme. 
And  in  his  continual  babbling  I  hear  a  theme,  so  fine, 
'Tis   faithfulness    and   constancy,   they   are   frienship's   gifts, 
sublime. 

Yes,   the   brooklet   and   I   are   friends — true   friends. 

Oh  brooklet  we  are  friends —  real  friends! 
Now  undisturbed  and  peacefully  we  council,  just  we  two, 
With   no   wee  voice   to   chide   me   or  bid   me   be   untrue; 
Por  years  have  swiftly  vanished  my  alloted  period  lived  most 

through, 

And   in   my   confirmed   unstableness   I   turn   again   to  you. 
Now  I   see.     O   murmuring  brooklet,   'tis   you   that's   young, 
so  young,  .... 

In  the  trend  of  age  and  ages,  your  life  has  just  begun; 
And  I,  it  is,  that's  old,  so  old,  my  course  is  almost  run, 
Yet,  in  all  my  stupid  soliloquy,  never  a  taunt  you've   flung. 

Oh  brooklet,  we  are  friends — real  friends. 


(38) 

PARODIC. 

(With  all  due  apologies  to  the  authors  of  the  original  lines.) 


THEN  OR  NOW  ? 

I  think  when  I  view  those  grand  portraits  of  old, 

When  our  grandsires  were  here  among  men; 
In    their    outlandish    garbs    they    were    sights    to    behold, 

I  should  like   to  have   been   living  then. 
Modest  ladies  in  bodice,  tight  sleeves  and  hoop  skirts, 

In  cocked  hats  and  knee  pants,  all  the  men; 
Buckled  slippers,  powdered  hair  and  those  beruffled  shirts, 

I'd  sure  like  to  have  been  living  then. 

But  when  I  view  the  curt  damsels  of  the  present  day, 

As  they  sally  forth  with  their  skirts  cut  so  short; 
In  their  flimsy  furbolows  there's   a  grander  display 

Of   "crural"    shapes    of    all    sizes    and    sorts. 
And  I'm  sure  I  speak  the  sentiments  of  all  men- 

Tho  they,  themelves,  dress  more  sensible  I'll  allow, 
In  the  choice  of  feminine  fads  of  the  "now"  and  "then," 

They're  all  glad  they  live  in  the  "now." 


UNAVAILABLE 
The  story  is  done  and  the  scratching  pen  falls 

From  the  hand  that  writes, 
As  the  sledge  hammer  is  thrown  downward 

By  the  smithy  'long  toward  night. 
I  seo  the  delight  in  the  editor's  face 

As   he    scans    the    pages    of   that    scrip; 
And  a  feeling  of  gladness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist. 
A  feeling  of  gladness  and  triumph 

That  is  nigh  akin  to  pain; 
And  will  depart  from  me  only 

When   he   sends   the   MS   back   again. 


(39) 

THE    SPORTSMAN. 

This  is  the  primitive  man,  civilization  feign 

Would  for  centuries  have  tamed. 

To  him  its  virtues   sings 
Around  him  a  net-work  of  laws  its  flings, 
That  draws  him  onward,  upward  toward  higher  things, 

Thus  he  is  attracted  and  will  find 
Content  and  pleasure  in  its  precepts  only  for  a  time. 

The  web  of  binding  laws  slightly  unfurled 
Into  a  tumult  of  desire  his  brain  is  whirled. 
It  burst  asunder  from  the  cell, 

Where  in  the  hum-dum  life,  he  had  bid  it  dwell, 

And   strove   to   conform   it   to   a   more   stately   shell; 
Before  him  lies  revealed 

The  quenchless   fires  of  savage  passion  now  unsealed. 

Useless  then  to  try,  this  curbing  of  his  soul, 
For   as   the   open    seasons    roll 

Resolutely    he    sets    out 
For  bruin,  roe-buck,  ducks,  geese  or  trout, 
And  not  until  he  slays  will  he  turn  himself  about; 

Thus  he  gratifies  his  will 
In  the  antics  of  the  cave  man,  for  he  is  a  cave  mar  still. 

PRICE-$4.99 

Be  still  poor  man  and  cease  repining, 

In  your  old   gray   coat   she   has   stitched  new  lining, 

Your  fate  is  but  a  common  fate  of  all, 

You  never  get 'any  new  clothes  "a  tall;" 

But  wify  must  have  her  silk  stockings. 

THE  TOE  DANCER 

Tripping,   Tripping,  little   star 
Dancing  beauty  that  you  are; 
As  you  whirl  and  twirl  and  flip  and  fly, 
Pray  how  can  you  kick  so  high? 


(40) 

MOVIES-MOVE-US 
(A   Modern  Thanatopsis) 

To  one,  who  in  the  love  of  the  movies,  seeks, 

To    enter    her    mysterious    realms,    she    speaks 

A   serious   language;    for  his   more   hooeful  hours 

She   has   a   voice    that   calls   him   a   thrill, 

She  is  eloquent  with  confidence;   and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  moments  with  that  mild 

And   sweet  assurance   that   steals    away 

The  dissappointment  ere  he  is  aware.  When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  prospects  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  the  sad  image 

Of  grim  despair,  thwarted  plans,  gloom, 

And   the  breathless   longing  for  the   slightest   chance, 

Makes  thee  to  shudder  and  grow  sick  at  heart, 

Go  forth  into  the  movie  park,  and  list  the 

Director's   teachings,   while  from   all   'round — 

The  park  drives  the  lakelets  and  the  depths  of 

Shrubbery   comes    his    loud,    thrill   voice.    Yet   a    few 

Hours  and  thee,  the  all  beholding  spectacle  shall  see 

No  more  with  all  its  discourse;   nor  yet  on  this 

Trampled   ground    where    the    senseless    scene 

Was  enacted  with  much  ado,  nor  in  the  embrace 

Of  galleries,   shall  exist  these  actor  images. 

Dramas  that  thrilled  them,  shall  claim 

Their  talent   to  be  as   null   and   void   again; 

And  lost  each  movie  trace,  surrendering  up 

Their    individual    costumes,    they   shall    go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  common  herd; 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  uncultured  smith, 

And  to  the  sluggish  tramp,  which  the  rude  farmer 

Turns  away  from  his  door  and  thus  scorns  upon.     The 

Manager   will   send   new   talent  down    to   confiscate 

The  roll.     Yet  not  unto  this  eternal  private  life 

Shall  one  retire  alone — or  could  one  wish 

A  life  more  uninteresting.     Thou  shall  retire 

With  the  brave  patriarchs  of  the  infant  reels,  with 


C41) 

Stars,  the  comedians  of  the  art,  the  bad,  the  good, 

Successful  boobs  and  failures  grand  of  former  shows, 

All  in  one  forgotten  caravan.     The  hills, 

Trodden  and  paraphernalia  strewn  where  they  parlied 

Long,    the   vale    stretching   in   clever   camouflage   between, 

The  make   believe  woods,   the  rivers   that  move  when 

The  camera  moves  and  the  artficial  brooks  that 

Completes  the  muddled  scene  and  pours  out  from 

The  nozzle  of  some  dilapidated  hose; 

Are  but  the  solemn  commemorations  all 

Of  the  great  grief  of  the  left-outs.     All  that  tread 

The  movie  stage  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribe 

That  clammors  for  admittance.     Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  the  Mojave  Desert  pierce, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  sands 

Where  rolls  the  Sunset  Limited,  and  hears  no  sounds 

Save  its  own  rumblings — yet  the  movie  man  is  there; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes  siince  first 

The  art  of  films  began,  have  hovered  near 

For  a  last  look,  dead  hopes  reign  there  alone. 

So  shall  they  all  fail;   but  what  if  thou  should  retire 

Unnoticed  by  the  manager  and  no   fellow  candidate 

Take  note  of  thy  great  ambition?     All  that  aspire 

Shall  share  thy  destiny.  The  amateur  will  strive 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  applicants 

Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 

HT,'S  favorite  pantomime.     Yet  all  these  shall  leave 

The  scenes  of  their  employment,  and  shall  came 

And  meet  their  fate  like  thee.  As  the  Icng  trend 

Of  tape  is  rolled  around,  the  child  of  craze,  the  youth 

In  his  ambitious  age  and  he  who  preforms 

In  the  full  strength  of  his  dramatic  days,  the  mai'den 

Old  maid  the  grizzled  aged,  the  speechless  babe,  whose 

Mother  alone  knows  the  superior  talent  of  its  innocent 

Life,  shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those   who   in   their   turn   shall   follow   them. 

So  live  in  hopes,  and  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 

The  unenumerable  caravan  that  wends  its  way 


(42) 

To  that  unavoidable  end  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  crowded  hall  of  failure, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  great  majority, 
Crestfallen  to  thy  doom,  but  substained  and  soothed 
By  a  lingering  faith  in  thyself,  approach  thy  certain 
Destination,  like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of 
His  fancy  costom  about  him  and  sails  out  before 
The  lens. 


(45) 

OTHER  POEMS. 

WHEN    THE    CHILDREN    SAY    THEIR    PRAYERS 

'Tis   a   sacred   moment,   almost  holy, 

When   each    head    is   bowed   with   care; 
With    lisping    lips    and    hands    clasped 

They   offer  up   the   bed   time   prayer. 
'Tis    a   moment    when    High    Heaven 

Looketh  down  and  then  prepares 
With  approving  smile   and   gladness, 

To    receive    the    children's    prayers. 

Paltering    not,    nor   hesitating, 

Not    a    doubtful    thought    assails; 
Pure    of   heart   and    humble    minded, 

Sincereity    and    truth    prevails. 
Attitude   that's    all    impressive, 

Eloquence    and    strength    is    there; 
Yet  sweet   simplicity   controlling 

Voices  of  that  evening  prayer. 

Perfect    confidence,    and    trusting, 

Absolute   their    childish   faith; 
Faith    that    passeth    understanding, 

Such  must  reach  the  throne  of  grace. 
Earnest   and    with    contrite    spirit, 

Devotional   worship   such   as   theirs 
Brings   the   earthly   nearer  heaven 

When  the   children  say  their  prayers. 
Temples  chosen  by  a  Sovereign 

As    the    earthly    dwelling    placje; 
In  the  children    (God's  Own  Kingdom) 

Is    revealed   his   heav'nly    grace. 
Ah,  it  seems  to  me  the   Holy  Angels 

Lingering    on    those    golden    stairs, 
Pause    with    reverence    and   listen 

When   the   children   say  their  prayers. 


(46) 

YOUTH— THOU  ART  GOLDEN 

Youth,  thou  are  golden,  Youth,  thou  art  fair. 
Feign  would  we  tread  that  primrose  path  anew, 
Where   no   clouded   skies   or   taut   winds   blew, 

But  bloom  and  mourning  dew 
Alone   gave   fragrance   to   that  balmy   air, 

And   placed   no   shadows    there. 

Youth,   thou   art  golden,   Youth,   thou   art   fair. 
Forbidd'n   thy   flowery  path,   we   look  back  and 

review 
Thy  pleasant  scenes,   thy  happy  hours   and   friends 

we  knew; 

Unseen    the    hand    that    drew 
In   silence  and  between  that  vail  of  years, 
Bringing  sadness — tears. 

Youth,  thou  art  golden,  Youth,  thou  art  fair. 
Encircled  by  a  softly  tinted  glow  art  thou, 
As  in  dimmer  realms,  and  fast  receding  now, 

Naught   doth    time    allow 
In   the   distant   scene   that   our  memories  lend 

But   shades   that   blend. 

Youth,   thou  art  golden,  Youth,  thou  art  fair. 
Each  new  day  a  mile  stone,  length'riing  years 

that   intervene, 
Yet  memory  clings  and  still  thy  vision  seen, 

Now  as  if  in  a  pleasant  dream, 
On  other  faces  thy  joys  and  lips  thy  voice  of 

glee 
Bids   us   happy   be. 


FROM  OUT  THE  DEPTHS 
(The    Quest    For    Knowledge) 

A  tiny  gem,  man  first  drew  unto  himself  from 


(47) 

out    the    depths. 

The  shapeless   brain  could   recognize 
The   valued   Pearl   of   Prize. 
He    cast,    and    cast   anew 
But   naught   he   drew; 
As    the    Platonic   ages    rolled    away 
Guarded  in  dark  vaults  of  mind,  a  single  jewel 
lay. 

Another  age  unfolds,  another  cast  for  gain — 

man    won. 

Then  a   second   Pearl  lay 
Beside    one    of   brilliant   ray. 
Each  fitted   the   preordained   cell 
As  the  oyster  to  its  dingy  shell; 
Nor  lost  them  in  the  deep  cavities  of  mind, 
Each  jewel  numbered,  and  not  difficult  to 
find. 

Plied   now  with   vigor,   the   still   uncertain   quest 

pursued. 

The    endless    search    for   more 
Added   value    to    that   meager   store. 
Reluctantly  the  boundless  deep 
Gave   up   each   pearl   'twould   keep; 
And   the   less   dim   shores   now   patrolled 
By  a  frail  and   slowly  moving  fleet — but  bold. 

Still  other  periods  of  time  to  witness  the 
tireless   research. 

As   the   lighter  ages    dawn 

Far    greater    treasures    drawn. 

Cells   in    countless   numbers    used, 

Those    once    dark   vaults   infused 
By  the   gleam   of  gems,   mingling  old   and  new; 
Slowly  and   steadily  the  store  of  knowledge  grew. 

Yet  the   future  holds   deep   seas  of  mother-pearl 


48; 

unexplored. 

Coines   laden    ships   from   distant   shoals, 
Naught   but  the   hand   of   time   controlls 
The   quest   complete,   and   when 
Each  brain  cell  holds  a  fitted  gem, 
From   out   the    depths    all   knowledge   has   been   drawn, 
With   perfect  mmd   comes   perfect  age  for  man- 
Millennial    dawn. 

THE  HEART  THAT  ADMIRES 

City,    beautiful,    nestling    mid    avenues    and 

promenades, 
What   splendid    sunlight   falls    and   bathes    thy 

marble    palasades. 
Here   a   terraced   garden,   there   a   crystal   lakelet 

lies, 
Reflects   the   grandeur   of   an   arch   or  tower   to 

azure   sides. 
If  ownership   of   these   would   lend   less   luster 

to   the   view, 
Then   I  would   count  the   number   of  possessions 

none  or  few; 
I  would  rather  see  the  beauty  of  a  gothic   court 

or  spire, 
Look  upon  thy  peerlessness  with  no   thought  but 

to    admire. 

Beauteous  ships  that  sail  all  ocear's  gray  and 

endless    waste, 
In    giving   to   its    restlessness    reveals    thy    stately 

grace; 
Whether   speeds    thy   course,    or   safely    moored,   thou 

art    swept    by    tide, 
And    rides    the    beaming    waves    like    mystic    phantoms 

in   a   glide. 

Had   I   power  of   purchase   for   all   or   any   of   thy  kind, 
I  would   count  no   fragile   bark   or  armoured   cruiser  mine, 


(49) 

If  in  love   of  revenue   lost   the   beauty  of   one   plyer, 
Rather    watch    thy    stately    swaying   with    no    thought 
but    to    admire. 

River,    ever    wending,    from    blue    vailed    hills    to 

valleys   low, 
Neath   bower   and    vine    where    lily   pads    stem    thy 

milder   flow ; 
In    thy    swifter    plunge    each    mossy   bank    receives    thy 

cooling    spray, 
In  each  glassy  pool  a  picture,  a  song  where  eddies 

play. 
Could   I   bridle   up   that   current   and   turn   a   fortune 

wheel, 
Yet  see  no  grandeur  in  thy  power,  then  rather 

would    I    feel 
The    rapture    of   thy   splendid   flow,   hear   the   music 

of   thy   lyre, 
Watch    thy    purling,    whirling,    swirling,    with 

no    heart    but    to    admire. 

O    meadows,    blooming    meadows,    dotting    plains    and 

valleys    deep, 
Perhaps    thy   luxuriant   verdure    spreads   where    vales 

and    forests,   meet; 
When   gentle   breezes   frisk   in   play,    grasses    dance 

before    its    sweep, 
Comes   fresh'ning   dews   or   sunny   skies   thy   flowers 

will    always    greet. 
Were  it  my  lot  to  hold  the  wealth  of  all  thy  grand 

expanse, 
Count  the  value  of  that  high  estate  as  gain,  but 

never   hence 
See  beauty  visions  of  thy  glow,  far  more  would 

I    desire 
To   look  upon   thy  budding  bloom   with   no   heart 

but    to    admire. 


(50) 
MY  MILLION  DOLLAR  STATUE 

Posing   at   the    foot   of   the   balustrade, 
Where   falls   the   uneven,   flashing   shade 
Of   flickering   fire-light   beginning    to    fade, 

And    scarcely    those    walls    illume; 
Through   half   closed   eye-lids,   now    surveyed, 
To   my   mind   no   sculpturer  has   ever   made 
A    statue   of   a   higher    text    or   grade 

Than  that  of  this  favored  room. 

Crowned   is   that   graceful   image   there 
With   a   woman's   head   and   a   woman's   hair, 
The    figure   of   maiden-hood   budding   fair, 

So    delicately    curved,    and    slight; 
Yet  childhood  I  see  in  thai   dimpled  pair 
Of  arms,  and  me  thinks  that  naught  can  compare 
With   the   statue   posed    at   the   foot   of   the    stair 

In   the   fading   flare   of   the   light. 

Bewithching  babyhood  perched   on  the  nose, 
The    lips    play    in    smile    that    girlhood    knows, 
Every  year  between  outlined   in   the  pose 

Of   form,   drapery   so   slightly   conceals; 
Prom  the  crown   of  the  head  to   slippered   toes 
The   past,   the   present,   the   future   impose 
Their   presence,    mingled    in    visions    that    'rose 

Up    'round   it   and   over   me   steals, 

And   now   in   my  dreams   it  leaves   the   stair 
To   come   and   stand   by   my   deep   armed   chair, 
Never  a  figure   or  a  face   so   fair 

As   this   placed    in   my   trust   and   keep; 
Falls   a   gontle   touch   and  a  loving  stroke 
On   my   drooping  head,   I   quickly  awoke, 
'Twas    then    my   million    dollar    statue    spoke, 

"Dear  daddie,  have  you  gone  to   sleep?" 


(51) 
THE  ANGLER  BOLD 

Down   deep   in   the   heart   of   the   tanglewood, 

Down    deep    in    the    dark    and    cool; 
Where    the    babbling    brooklet    ever    sings 

To    the    fish    in    the    crystal    pool. 
The    banks    of   that   sparkling    streamlet 

Patrolled  by  an  angler  bold; 
Followed  by  the  All  Adoring  One, 

Contented  the  bait  can  to  hold. 

Equipped   for   the    grilling   conquest 

With — rod, cost  ten  bucks   an  a   half; 
A   reel,    the   price   was    two   fifty, 

Three   ten,   the   line   with   which   to   cast, 
Five   dollar  basket   swung  by  a  halter, 

Net — four   plunks — in   the   strong  firm   hand; 
And   to  the   eyes   of  the   All   Adoring   One 

Was   there   ever   a   man   so   grand? 

Over  and   over  the  incessant  lashing 

Fell  full  on  the  breast  of  the   stream; 
In  the  hours   of  tedious   tramping, 

Patience   would   be   waning   'twould   seem. 
Ever  and   anon   as   the   Brave   One   cast 

He  was  watched  by  the  Adoring  One; 
At  last  the   silken  cord  snared  him — 

A   trout,   and   the   conquest  won. 

Proud   and   boastful   the   Brave   One   stood   ther* 

Ween   not  that  I   estimate   wrong; 
Squirming  at  the  feet   of  the  Adoring  One, 

A  speckled  beauty,   six  inches  long. 
The   Brave    One,    gazing   in   admiration, 

Commanded,  as   only  a  "brave   one"  can; 
"Woman,   behold   thy   hero!" 

And   she  answereth   "Wonderful   Man! 


(52) 

CONJUGATION 

He  was  the  galant  age  of  twenty-one, 

And  she  was  just   sixteen; 
Under  curious   gaze  they  were   defining, 

The   verb    "to    love"    I   mean. 
"Present — I   love,   you   love,    we    love,"    said    sho, 

"Do  not  say  'we,'"  said  he; 
"Just  'I  love,  you  love'  is  singular, 

'We'  is  the  plural  you  see." 
"Past — I   loved,    you   loved    ,we    loved,"    said    she, 

(A  confusing  thing  is  a  verb) 
"I  say  'you  need  not  say  "we"  loved',"  said  he, 

A  tittering   was   plainly  heard. 
"Future — I  will,  you  will,  we  will  love,"  said  she, 

"Just  leave  out  that  'we,'  "  said  he, 
*You  say  'the  "we"  belongs  to  the   plural' 

There   are   two   of  us,"   said   she. 
A  giggling,  now  both  faces   flushing, 

Two   brains    beginning   to    whirl; 
For  he  was  the  handsome  young  school  teacher. 

And  she  was  the  "biggest"  girl. 


IF  MAN  WERE  THE  ONLY   CREATURE 

If  man  were  the  only  creature 

Gcd  created  with  brawn  and  brain 
Of  ingeniousness  he  might  be  proud, 

And   shout   of   belated   fame. 

There  flitted  a  tiny  linnet, 

And   sang   to   a   Brazilian   spring; 
Till  the  far,  far  north  sent  a  call  for  song 

And  a  birdling  sped   on  the  wing. 
A   fortnight   later   the   same   sweet   lay 

Fell  full  to  the  Greenland  skies, 
Nor  did  the  tiny  pilot  mistake  his  way, 


(53) 

At   the   speed   no   airship   flies. 
There   lives  a  paddling   beaver, 

In  the  heart  of  the  northland  cool, 
And  diligently  toiled  to  stately  build 

A  house  in  the  deep,  dark  pool. 
When  winter's  frost  had   forbidden 

His  haunts  on  the  ice  bound  shore, 
There   snugly  neath   the  periscope  hidden, 

In  his  house  with  a  submarine  door. 

Marooned   was   a   tiny   spider 

On  a  reef  and  the  danger  rife, 
And  he  was  not  unaware  of  his  peril, 

Nor  lost  for  means  to   save  his  life. 
Immediate  action,  a  line  soon  swept 

In  space  t'was  upheld  by  the  breeze, 
When  anchored  to  shore  the  refugee  crept 

'Long  his  cable  to  hide  in  the  leaves. 

If  man  was  the  only  creature 

God  ever  chose  to  create, 
Of  ingeniousness  he  might  be  proud, 

And  boast  of  himself  as  great 


WHAT    USED    TO    BE. 

'Twas  the  home  cf  the  friends  of  my  childhood, 

Where  oft  I  have  spent  the  day; 
Within  the  shelt'ring  walls  that  made  welcome  &l 

Now  deserted  and  fall'n  to  decay. 

The   peasantry   says   it  is  haunted, 

Me  thinks  I  will  go  and  see; 
I  have  no  fear  but  the  old  home  dear 

Will  be  just  as  it  used  to  be. 


(54) 

As  I  approach  the  broken  paling, 

There  nodding  a  greeting  to  me; 
Roses  bob  in  the  wind,  in  their  faces  I  find 

Visions  of  what  used  to  be. 

When  I  drew  near  to  the  broad  stone  stoop 
Tendrils,  like  hands,  give  welcome  to  me 

In  the  clinging  vines  that  over  it  twine. 
Are  images  of  what  used  to  be. 

When  I  enter  in  a  little  gray  squirrel 
Is  disturbed  by  a  stranger  like  me, 

In  his  hasty  retreat  the  pattering  feet 
Echo  the  what  used  to  be. 

More  reminiscent  still,  that  shattered  bur, 

In  the  litter  he  left  I  see 
The  toy  strewn  floor,  that  open  door, 

Reminds  me  of  what  used  to  be. 

At  the  rear  door,  an  old  water  wheel, 
Where  the  spray  once  prattled  in  glee; 

Tho  the  stream  never  more  will  over  it  pour, 
It  tells  of  the  what  used  to  be. 

Yes,  the  peasantry  says  it  is  haunted, 

And  'tis  strangely  visited  I  see 
'Round  each  familiar  thing  there  seems  to  cling 

The  si.irit  of  whit  used  to  be. 


MY  HIGH  ESTATE. 

What  matters  it  to  me  who  owns — 
That  broken  expanse  of  hill  and  vale, 

Outlined  on  yonder  blue; 
Where  deep  scallops  in  the  horizon 

Lets  the  infant  morning  through. 


(55) 

Or  in  the  sunsets  glow  those  peaks  arise 

To  kiss  the  clouds  above; 
What  matters  it  to  me  who  owns 

They  are  mine  to  see  and  love. 

What  matters  it  to  me  who  claims — 
That  great  and  massive  forest  land 

Where  dwells  the  virgin  pine; 
Where  shades  and  shadows  chase  and  rule 

The  scanty  ray  that  shine; 
Where   branches   clasping   branches   spann 

Like  archways  high  above; 
What  matters  it  to  me  who  claims 

I  walk  them  through  and  love 

What  matters  it  to  me  who  holds — 
An  interest  m  that  mountain  torrent 

Where   surging  waters  boom: 
And  tremors  earth,  and  gores  its  way, 

And  widening  gorges  loom, 
To  proclaim  its  power  the  thundering  vcice 

Rebounds  from  crags  above; 
What  matters  it  to  me  who  holds 

I  see  and  hear  and  love. 

What  matters  it  to  me  who  comes — 
To  walk  mid  this  earthly  grandeur 

And  see  with  mortal  eye, 
When  molds  my  clay  on  slope  or  crest 

My  view  continues  from  on  high; 
And  premitted  I  a  grander  scope, 

Be  this  my  heavenly  state, 
I  would  class  it  as  eternal  joy, 

And  wish  no  greater  fate. 


(56) 
GENIUS 

Genius,  ever  patient, 

Walketh  not  on  flower  beds  when  creative  thoughts  unfold, 

Nor  fleeting  wings,  nor  rideth  he  in  chariots  of  gold; 

But   chooseth   he  a   tedious   path,   loborious   and   slow, 

With  retarded  steps,  and  wavering,  creepeth  toward  the  goal. 

Genius   ever   humble, 

Dwelleth  not  in  luxurious  palaces,  comfort  to  insure, 
Nor  buildeth  castles  on  a  hill,  fame  to  procure; 
But  liveth  he  in  lowly  places,  retiring,  obscure 
Gaurding  his  tender  talents  till  they  become  mature. 

Genious,  ever  modest, 

Chooseth  not  his  friends  for  outward  show  or  pomp  or  pride, 

Nor  careth  he  for  flattering  tongues  nor  praise  besides; 

But  carefully  selects  with  true  companions  to  abide, 

In  confidence,  and  quiet,  and  from  the  world  would  hide. 


IT  IS  A  LONG,  LONG  ROAD  TO  BELGIUM. 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Belgium?" 

A  lady  asked  of  a  tired  nurse 
"They  say  there  is  very  great  sickness, 

I  must  be  there  before  things  are  worse." 
"Kind  lady,  I  can  not  tell  you 

I  am  so  busy  the  whole  day  through, 
In  my  ward  are  a  hundred  children, 

And  much  work  a  few    hands  must  do." 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Belgium?" 

This  asked  of  a  child  by  the  way; 
"I  hear  the     people  are  starving  there, 

I  must  help  them  without  delay." 
"Dear  lady,  I  cannot  tell  you, 


(57) 

But  it  may  be  up  this  way; 
I  am  taking  this  dinner  basket 
To  a  grandma  who  is  >ll  all  (lay.* 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Belgium?" 

This  to  a  man  with  a  dinner  pail; 
"They  say  there  is  need  of  workers  there 

I  must  get  there  without  fail." 
"Good  lady  I  cannot  tell  you, 

If  1  could  I  would  help  them  too; 
In  the  factory  the  work  is  very  great, 

And  the  number  of  laborers  few." 

"Is  it  so  very  far  to  Belgium?" 

She  asked  of  the  street  police; 
"  I  hear  the  distress  is  appalling, 

And  the  weeping  does  not  cease." 
How  far?     I  cannot  tell  you. 

But  this  is  the  way  I  know; 
There  is  an  accident  on  the  highway, 

And  a  call  and  I  must  go." 

Sompwhere  on  that  road  to  Belgium 

Was  the  scene  of  the  accident, 
A  little  child  mangled  and  bleeding, 

Kind  hands  to  the  rescue  went. 
The  distress  was  great,  the  weeping  deep 

And  suffering  and  nursing  and  care; 
A  little  body  to  grow  all  twisted, 

That  lady's  own  child  was  injured  there. 


BORN (?) 

Proud,  but  spent  by  the  grilling  test 
Borne  when  travail's  pangs  infest, 
An  anguishing  moment  is  birth  at  best, 
The  triumphant  mother  is  prone  to  rest. 


(58) 

In  the  victory,   forgotten   every   palin, 
That  mother — a  fatigued   and  weary  brain; 
In  her  new  born  infant  merit  shines, 
Tis  a  healthy  poem — eight  lines. 


HOW  LOVELY   IS   THE  ROSE 

Only  yesterday  I  looked  upon  you, 

Adorning  the  garden  so  fair; 
And  promised  an  opportune  moment 

To  seek  you  in  confidence  there. 

In  the  passing  glance  that  I  gave  you, 
I  was  struck  by  your  graceful  pose; 

Some  day  I  would  stop  and  consider 
What  a  wonderful  thing  is  a  rose. 

Sometime  I  would  study  your  nature, 
As  you  seemed  to  invite  me  to  do; 

I  would  leisurely  view  the  surroundings 
Would  compare  and  fit  them  to  you. 

Note  the  curl  of  your  velvety  petals, 

So  delicate  in  texture  and  hue: 
So    perfectly   clustered    together, 

Some  day  I  would  ponder  them  through. 

I  would  fully  enjoy  your  loveliness, 
I  would  linger  to  drink  the  perfume; 

I  would  fill  my  soul  with  your  sweetness, 
Ah,  surely  in  the  sometime  soon. 

At  some  other,  more  opportune  moment, 
Was  my  promise  of  the  yesterday; 

But  last  night  the  zephyr  breezes  came, 
And  wafted  those  petals  away. 


(59) 

Nevermore  can  I  look  upon  them, 

And  'tis  Kttle  my  memory  will  lend; 
A  sad,  sad  thought,  I  deeply  regret 
It  has  been  even  so  with  a  friend. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  CHASE 

(A   quest   paralleling    with    vivaoity   the   somberness   of 

Desert    Rat.) 

One  bright  summer  morning,  one  light  sunny  morning, 

Came  meeting,  came  greeting,  adown  mid  the  clover; 
Jesse  and  Jennett  there,  each  w^ith  a  net  there, 

Went  talking,  went  walking,  the  green  meadow  over; 
When  out  to  one  side  there,  both  of  them  spied  there, 

In  bowers  of  flowers  in  a  fern  foilagad  place, 
A  beautiful  thing  there,  a  thing  of  soft  wing  there, 

And  tripping,  and  skipping,  they  were  off  on  a  chase; 
Tripping  and  skipping,  and  flipping  and  dipping, 

They  were  off  on  a  butterfly  chase. 

So  enticing,  so  inviting,  how  very  exciting, 

To  net  it  and  get  it  each  one  did  intend; 
It  proved  such  a  rover,  they  trampled  the  clover 

Over  and  over  to  the  green  meadow's  end. 
Ever  it  flayed   them,   flayed   and   betrayed   them, 

That  airy-like,   fairy-like,   gaudy-like   thing; 
In  the  hurry  and  scurry,  the  flutter  and  flurry, 

Never  into  the  web  of  the  net  did  they  bring 
That  Wig  bright  butterfly,  that  bright  brown  butterfly, 
In  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

Oft'  they  went  rolicking,  frisking  and  frolicking, 

Tramping  and  stamping  through  the  great  pansy  bed; 

Went  sweeping,  went  leaping,  went  softly  creeping, 
In  league  and  in  line  down  the  lane  they  both  sped; 

On  the  needles  of  the  nettles  it  nestles  and  settles, 
To  dare  to  go  there  too  neither  would  quite; 


(60) 

They  waited  and  debated,  scarce  said  meditated, 
Wlien  away  there,  so  gay  there,  it  took  up  its  flight; 

And  again  they  were  merry,  light  hearted  and  cheery, 
On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

Down  on  a  willow,  on  a  soft,  fuzzy  pillow, 

It  made  there,  and  stayed  there,  till  Jesse  and  Jennett 
Came  romping  and  stomping,  came  stomping  and  tromp'ng, 

Came  peering,  came  nearing,  how  near1  did  they  get? 
Then  folded  so  softly  its  wings  and  so  lofty 

Went  swinging,  went  swaying,  went  swerving  away; 
Among  the  buhach  there  never  was  a  whack  there, 

But  brushed  it  and  crushed  it  the  whole  live  long  day: 
And  they  were  so  merry,  light  hearted  and  cherry, 

On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

They  went  hustling  and  bustling,  went  rustling  and  tustling, 

From  thistle  to  thorn,  and  to  thistle  again; 
Hither  and   thither,   no   matter   whither, 

Down  the  hill,  'cross  the  rill,  once  more  to  begin 
That  falling  and  crawling,  quite  often  went  spralling, 

To  net  it  and  get  it  in  the  green  garden  patch; 
To  ramble  and  gamble,  through  brier  and  through  bramble, 

And  ramble  and  shamble  through  the  thick  of  the  thatch; 
And  both  were  so  merry  light  hearted  and  cheery, 

On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

And   then   they   went   prancing,    in    fanciful    dancing, 

To  the  edge  of  the  ledge  of  rock  to  explore; 
And  thought  they  had  snared  it,  but  fate  always  spared  it, 

Went  waving  its  wings  to  the  pond's  farther  shore; 
Going  'round  it,  they  found  it,  and  tried  to  surround  it, 

Where  it  sat  in  the  lap  of  a  long  lily  leaf; 
Not  a  sigh  of  regret  though,  from  Jesse  or  Je;mett  though, 

When   they   failed,   still   they   trailed    to   a   bright   yellow 
sheaf; 


(61) 

And  they  made  so  merry  light  hearted  and  cheery 
On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

How  oft'  they  went  hopping,  till  they  were  ne^r  dropping, 

To  the   slope  there  to  mope  and  to  groupe  in  the  green; 
And  thought  they  had  lost  it  but  found  they  had  crossed  it, 

In  grasses  where  masses  of  migonnette  seen, 
Unmolested,   it   rested,   their   patience   it   tested, 

They  bounded   and   pounded   and   hounded   in   vain; 
They  foiled  it,  not  quite,  till  it  fooled  them  in  flight, 

To   go  flouncing  and  bouncing  and  pouncing  again; 
And    still   they   were   merry,   light   hearted   and   cherry, 

On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

Again   they   went   racing,   went   pacing   and    ch^sicg, 

From   sunshine   to   shadow,   from   shadow  to   shade; 
And  then  came  an  hour,  an  hour  of  shower, 

To  hie  and  to  fly  to  an  evergreen  glade; 
Helter  and   skelter,  no  time  now  for  shelter, 

They   spied   there   and   eyed    there,   'twas   under   a   blade: 
Though  Jess  and  Jennett  then,  were  surely  quite  wet  then, 

Went  jumping  and   thumping,   as  for  it  they  made; 
And  all  were  so  merry,  light  hearted  and  cherry, 

On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

She  was  stayed  by  a  log,  he  was  delayed  by  a  bog, 

And  fumbled  and   stumbled  and  tumbled  about, 
To   surmount   the   obstruction,   to   evade   the   induction, 

Of  mud  in  hfs   shoes,   v/ould  he  ever  get  out? 
Perched  on  a   clod  there,  a  clod  of  dry  sod  there, 

Just   out   of   reach   of   that   long   handled   net; 
That   big   bright   butterfly,    that   big   brown    butterfly, 

So  dear  to   the  hearts  of  Jesse  and  Jennett; 
And  yet  they  were  merry,  light  hearted  and  cherry 

On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

All  day  it  lasted,   they  famished  and  fasted, 


(62) 

In  bloom  time,  in  noon  time,  till  long  evening  shades 
Came    slowly    shifting,   then   went   drifting, 

So  joval  and  jolly  where  the  hollyhock  fades; 
'Twas   down  by  the  trim   rows  of  peas  where  the   primrose 

Tolled   it  to   hold   it,   and   fold   it  in   sleep; 
Went  blund'ring,  went  plund'ring,  to  see  where  'twas 
slumb'ring, 

Intently,   but   gently,   each   one   took   a   peep; 
No  need  now  to  net  it,   with  hands  they  could  get  it, 

In  the   beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 

Down  there  by  the  trim   rows   of  peas   where  tne  primrose 

Was   holding,  'twas  folding  its  wings  for  the  night; 
What  did  they  spy  there,  but  a  beg  dragon  fly  there, 

To  touch  it,  to  clutch  it,  'twould  be  sure  to  bhe; 
That   beautiful    thing    then,    was    a    thing   that    would    stiug 
them, 

It  had  taunted,  they  had  haunted  and  wanted  it  so; 
As  the  race  was  all  over,  through  the  damp,   d<-wy  clover, 

Not  drearly,  but  wearily,  homeward   did   go; 
Both   thrilling   with    laughter   at   what   they'd    l»eer    after 

On  the  beat  of  the  butterfly  chase. 


'WAY   DOWN  IN  SHASTA 
W)ay  down  in  little  Shasta, 

Where  the  skies  are  blue,  so  blue; 
And  the  wind  is  in  the  white  fir, 

Can't  you  hear  it  blowin'  through? 
The  sheepman  and  the  cowboy  sings 

As  they  rove  the  hill  and  plain; 
Nay   does    the    native    stray    afar 

Till  he  strays  him  back  again. 

Way  down  in  good  old  Shasta, 

Came   to  rugged   gulch  and  hill; 
The  miner  with  his  pack  and  pick, 


(63) 

Can't  you  hear  it  clinkin'  still? 
The  same  hills  called  the  hunter  bold, 

And   the  trappers   came  for  game; 
And   nay   does   a   one   wander   afar 

Till   he  wanders  back  again. 

Way   down    in   little    Shasta, 

Where    the    woodman's    ax    and    mill 
Goes    whing,    goes    whang    the    cross-eut    saw, 

Don't   you  hear'em  ringing  still? 
They    tell    us    of   a   wonder   land, 

Not  a  land  of  note  or  fame; 
But  nay  does  the  native  stray  afar 

Till   he    strays   him   back   again. 

Way  down  in  little   Shasta, 

Comes  the  cooing  notes,  or  thrill; 
Of   mountain    quail,    or   meadow   lark, 

Don't  you  hear'em   callin'  still? 
Contented,  all,  to  live  and  love 

In   this   land   of  joy   and   song; 
Nay  does  the  native  stray  afar, 

Nor   strays  he  very  long. 


WILL  YOU? 

A  beautiful,  snow  white  lily, 
With  petals  so  easily  soiled; 

Down  on  a  dusty  side-walk, 
Pick  it  up  before  'tis  spoiled. 

A  lovely,  soft  winged  butterfly, 
Out  in  the  great  clover  bed; 

Tangled  in  the  web  of  a  spider, 
Pray  get  it  before  it  is  dead. 


(64) 

A   pure   and   spotless   character,. 

How  easily   'tis    smirched   by   sin; 
Standing    right    in    line    for    ruin, 

Go  quickly  and  gather  it  in. 


THOSE    POPPY   DAYS 


I  remember  so  well  when  my  little  chum  Nell 

Was  a  sweet  blue  eyed  lassie  of  seven; 
She    depended   on   me   her   protector   to   be, 

I  was  past  the  great  age  of  eleven, 
Then    we    gathered   poppies,    those   big   yellow    poppies, 

In   spring   time   when   fields   were   aglow; 
A  lassie  of  seven,  a  laddie  of  eleven, 

Just  chums  in  that  sweet  long  ago. 

i 

Ten  years  rolled  around,  my  Nell  and  I  found 

Our  friendship  was  blessed  from  above; 
Like   the   popples   full   blown   it   had   flourished   and   grown, 

And   now   was   a   blossom   of  love. 
We   still   gathered    poppies,   those   big  yellow   poppies, 

So   happy   our   hearts    were   aglow; 
Now   don't  you   see,  what   she  was   to  me? 

My    sweetheart    and    I    was    her    beau. 

I   remember  the  day,   the  joyous    spring  day, 

Nell   promised   that   she'd   be   my   wife; 
The  fields  were  aglow  with  yellow  and  gold, 
'Twas  the  happiest  day  of  my  life. 
We   were    gathering   poppies,    those    big   yellow    poppies, 

She  was  holdng  a  million  I  know; 
But  they  fell  to  the  ground  when  her  sweet  lips  I  found, 

And  stole  my  first  kiss  long  ago. 


(65) 

THE   CHAPEL   LIGHT 
(The   Quest   For  Soul) 

The    traveler   mistakes   the   way — 

And    beats    about   the    country    road    where    blinding    snows 
Fall   in    drifts    and   blocks   h!is    steps,    before   him   rose 
The   flaked   atmosphere,   and   cold,   his   vision   lost 
In  the  blackness  of  the  night,  his  purpose  crossed 
By  storm,  as  by  a  pulse  of  fever,  mind  confused, 
He   stumbled   on,   sick  of  limb,   till   strength  refused 
To  be  thus   overtaxed,   abused. 

Fell  exhausted  by  the  way. 

This  man,  who   struggled  for  his  life,   gave  up  all  hope, 
He  must  perish  in  tho  storm,  why  further  grope 
Against   the   blizzard   and   the   darkness,   strive  in  vain 
To  reach  a  shelter  with  no  light  to  aid,  no  aim? 
Death    was    near,    and    unprepared    for    spirit   flight, 
He  feared   to   pass,  when   lo   a  gleaming  through  the  night 
Came   the   way   side   chapel   light. 

That   man    so   near   to   death 

Had   seen   that   feeble   ray   of  light  how   oft'   before, 
Shining  like   a   beacon   from   the  little   chapel   door; 
How   indifferently   he'd    passed,   now   by   twist   of   fate 
He  must  seek  it  as  a  refuge,  ere  it  be  too  late. 
Just  to   make   his   peace   with   God,   then   to   drop   and   die, 
It  matters  not  in  death  where  moral  form  may  lie, 
The   soul   concerns,   and   God    on   high. 

Then    'cross    the    wind    swept   moor 
Crept  a  piteous  object  over  unfamiliar  ground; 
Snow  drifts  piling  high  before  him,  strove  to  beat  him  down; 
Quite  often  lay  exhausted,  then   staggered  on  again, 
Numbed  in  every  muscle,  blood  frozen  in  the  vein; 
No  longer  felt  the  icy  gale,  nor  felt  its  stinging  bite, 
Just  conscious   of  his  purpose,  and  to  pilot  him  aright 
Gleamed    the    little    chapel    light. 


(66) 

Made   the   church   yard,   made   the   stoop. 
Leaned    'gainst  an   oaken   panel,   in   a  haven   sought, 
Beheld  the  door  was  open,  fast  (liming  eyes  now  caught 
A  glimpse   of  arched   vestibule,   then   the   chapel   main, 
Cost  his  last  effort,  every  ounce  of  strength  to  gain, 
He   stood  beside   the   altar,   alone,   in   dead   of  night, 
Unaided,   unattended,    'gainst   all   odds   he'd   won   the   fg'ur: 
Guided   by   the   chapel   light. 

Prom  the  communion  of  the  day 

There  remained   the  cruse  of  wine,  the  broken  bread, 
To  touch  (the  lifting  of  a  hand  now  seemed  as  lead) 
Meant   atonement   for   his   soul,   the  right  so   dearly  bought 
By  blood  of  One,  now  in  a  feeble  effort  wrought 
A  cry  for  peace  Went  up  to  God,   and   did  not  fail 
To  reach  the  throne,  another  cry  for  joy,  for  pain  a  wail; 
He  fell  across  the  alter  rail. 

In  the  tumult  of  his  mind 

Why  looked   that  massive   country  house  a  church  to  him? 
That  porch   a   portico,   and   kitchen   door   wherein 
He'd    entered    looked    of    gothic    build,    and    dining    room 
Became   as   chapel    walls,    where    shaded    lamps   illume, 
The   buffet,   the  ballastrade  appeared   an  altar   where 
Lost  man  restores  his  soul,  one  came  and  found  him  there; 
'Twas  the  butler,  aged  and  white  of  hair. 

A  cup  of  wine  pressed  to  the  lips. 
The  dim  eyes  unclosed  and  saw  as  thorugh  a  veil 
The   aged   butler   there   beside   the   polished   rail; 
And   thought   a   person   of   the   cloth   ministered   to  him 
The  sacred  cup,  and  reconciled  his  soul  within. 
Another  drop,  this  man  came  back  to  life,  to  sight, 
Found   his  priest   a  butler,   what  he  thought  a  chapel   light 
An  illusion  of  the  night. 


(67) 

Without  that  cup  of  wine 

Where  now  his  mortal  form  but  lain  to  mold,  to  rust? 
Without  that  hand   to   give  where  now  his  flesh  but  dust.'' 
He  thanked  the  white  haired  butler  o'er  and  o'er 
Yea  he   thanked  him   e'en  on  bended  knee  and  more- 
He   wept   in   gratitude,   and   compensation   made 
For  life  long  obligation  to  one  who'd  given  aid; 
And  his  earthly  debt  he  fully  paid. 

In  that  struggle  for  his  soul 

Wherein  he  lost  his  life  and  found  it,  then  again 
Forgot   his    soul    and   remembered   all   the   pain, 
Wherein  he  found  his   God  and  lost  mortality, 
Made  his  heavenly  peace,  but  now  he  fails  to  see 
The  light  still   gleaming  from  the  little  chapel  door, 
Embraces  not  its  alter,  nor  falls  his  step  upon  the  floor; 
He  walks  it  by,  indifferent  as   before. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  STAG 
"The  female  of  the  species  is  'less'  deadly  than  the  male." 

When  the  king  of  the  forest  meets  the  prince  of  the  wild 
No  artifice,  no  flattery,  no  attempt  to  beguile 
Each  to  his  undoing,  might  and  main  backed  by  skill, 
Forth  to  battle  royal,  win  by  strength  and  by  will. 

As    the   king   of   the   forest,    every   inch   he    is    idng, 
Brings  under  his   dominion   every  live  breathing  thing; 
Shakes  the  walls  of  his  kingdom  when  he  roars  a  command. 
Every  enemy  obeys  him,  subjects  meet  his  demand. 

As  the  prince  of  the  wild,  oh,  how  princely  is  he. 
Not  more  princely  in  bearing  could  real  nobleman  be; 
All  so  princely  in  manner  and  so  princely  in  build, 
True  trates   of  his  nature,   princely   instincts   instilled. 


(68) 

When  the  king  of  the  forest  meets  the  prince  of  the  wild 
No   artifice,   no  flattery,   no   attempt  to   beguile; 
Armed  by  horn  and  by  hoof  and  by  tooth  and,  by  nail, 
No  more  royal  the  battle  fought  with  armour  and  mail. 

Staged — the    scene   of   the   conflict   on   a   chill   winter   day. 
Clouds  hanging  like  curtains,  all  so  stfll  and  so  gray; 
On  the  floor  of  the  arena  spread  a  carpet  of  white, 
Tread   no   living   creature   to   interrupt   the   great   fight. 

As   agile   as   the   king,   the   agility   of   the   prince, 
Steeled,  nerved  and  tempered,  and  a  grand  consequence; 
Born   opponents   and   equals,   no   germ   of   cowardise, 
No   weakening   of  spleen   till   each   one   paid   the   price. 

Crouched,    trembling    of   limb,    how    carefully    the    king 
Measured   distance   exact>    and   prepared   for   the    spring; 
No  false  motion  of  his  that  he  missed  the  mark  wide, 
For  the  prince,  all  alert,  sprightly  leaped  to  one  side. 

Unlike  the  cautious  king,  who   to  make   sure   of  the   line. 
Controlled  eager  passion,  counted  fractions   intime; 
The  prince  whirls  to  the  aggress,  and  recklessly  bounds 
Brings   down   his   four  daggers   under  four  hundred  pounds. 

In  the  gnashing  and  gashing,  bleeding  flesh  from  bone  tore, 
In  the  goreing  and  gouging},  rent  the   ermine   they  wore; 
The  king  prone  to  anger,  the  prince  for  dignity  buiit, 
Waged  and  wedged  his  spear  points  up  to  handle  or  hilt 

i 
*  , 

Knowing  vitals  were  severed,  each  one  leaped  apart; 
/    Well   nigh    discmbowled,    all    undaunted    by   pain, 
The  king  rebounds   to  action,  and   again  and   again 
In  the  great  vivisection  proves   royal  his  worth, 

While  the  prince  in  the  second  shows  a  mark  of  high  birlh. 
But  at  last  they  both  feel  the  sword   thrust  to   the  heart, 


(69) 

The  king  raised  to  fore-paw,  roared,  dropped,  quiver'd,  past, 
In  each  fiber  of  frame  he  was  king  to  the  last. 

As  the   prince  leaped  aside,  he  flourished  his  sword, 
From  the  jugular  vein  every  drop  of  blood  poured; 
Reared  to  his  haunches,  struck,  fell  backward  and  died, 
Slain — a   king   and    a   prince,   laying   there   side   by   side. 

When  the  king  of  the  forest  meets  the  prince  of  the  wild 
No   artifice,   no   flattery,   no   attempt  to   beguile, 
All  so  dauntless  and  daring,  so  disdainful  of  doath, 
Proves   them  launched  for  one  issue,  born  for  conquest. 

Prey  to  their  own  passions   each  one  had  fallen  foul, 
And  the  dirge  of  the  day  was  a  wolf's  dismal  howl; 
The  flowers  for  the  dead,  a  mass  of  roses  so  red. 
Strewn  over  the  snow — the  life  blood  they  had  shed. 

Was  there  no  one  to  weap?  The  last  leaf  brown  and  sear. 
Fell  away  from  the  branch}  'twas  the  tree's  only  tear: 
Was  there  no  one  to  mourn?  Yea  the  Wind  heaved  a  sigh, 
That  a   king   and   a   prince   should   so   needlessly   die. 

Then  the  lowering  gray  clouds  folded  down  with  the  night, 
O'er  the  scene  of  the  battle  spread  a  blanket  of  white; 
When    the    immaculate    sky   ushered    in    the    new   day. 
Mother   Nature   had   lam  her  two   children   away. 


THE   OLD  FASHIONED  FLOWERS 

There    are    many    bright    flowers    in    the    garden, 
They   are   blooming   in   lovely   array. 

Their   colors    are    delicate   or   gorgeous, 
They  are  grouped   for  a  grand  display. 

There    are    dahlias    and    cannos    and    jasmin, 
The   la    f ranee    and   the   great   snowball; 

There  are  none  like   the  old  fashioned   flowers 


(70) 
That  bloom  down  by  the  old  stone  wall. 

They  are  just  some  old  fashioned  roses, 

But  they  are  sweetest  of  them  all; 
They  are  just  some  old  fashioned  poses, 

That  bloom  by  the  side  of  the  wall; 
There  are  lilies  and  marguerites  and  daises 

There  are  pinks  both  great  and  small; 
They  are  the  old  fashion  flowers 

But   we   love    them   the   best    of   all» 

We   wandered   a   while   mid   the   flowers, 

We   love   them,   my   Maggie   and   me; 
It   is   here   we    spend    many    long   hours, 

As   happy   as   happy  as   can  be. 
It   was   down    'mong   the   old   fashioned    roses 

That   twine   over   the   old   stone   wall, 
I  was  there  with  Maggie  when  I  told  her 

That  I  loved  her  the  best  of  all. 

Maggie  is  like  the  old  fashioned  poses, 

She  fs  gentle   and   good   and   true; 
Her  cheeks   are   the  blush  of  the  roses, 

She   is   fair  like   the   lily  too; 
She  is  timid  and  shy  as  the  daisy, 

Like  the  pink,   she  is   sweetest   of  all; 
She  is  just  like  those  old  fashioned  flowers 

That  bloom  down  by  the  old  stone  wall. 


THE  VETERAN  AND   THE   SCHOOL   BOY 
In  a  dusty  old  town  by  the  wayside, 

In  a  little  old  ramshackled  hall: 
The  people  had  gathered  for  council, 

Just  one  hundred  persons  m  all. 
'Twas   a  "rousing  political   meetin", 

The   oratory   was    eloquent    and    great; 


(71) 

Itisu'ussmg    the    affairs    of    the    nation, 

Only   matters   that   carried   great   weight. 
And  because  of  its  nature  and  purpose, 

The  meeting  had  been  rather  long, 
The   chairman   thought   it  was   in  order 

To  wind  the  affair  up  with  a  song. 
Because  of  the  wonderful  speakin'" 

Patriotism  held  sway  in  each  heart, 
Therefore  an  ode  to  the  country, 

Would  thrill  them  before  they  depart. 
"We   will    now    sing   The    Star   Spangled   Banner," 

The  chairman  announced  to  the  throng; 
And  the  hundred  arose  to  give  honor 

And   to   join   in   that   beautiful   song. 
The   first   verse — the   chairman,   he   knew   it, 

Of  course  he   could   sing  well   and   good, 
And  the  next  one — well  if  he  could  not 

There  were  plenty  of  others  who  could. 
As   that   audience   arose   at  his   bidding 

Each  one  of  them  thought  just  the  same, 
Each   was   confident   that   some   other 

Would   be   familiar  with   all   the   refrain. 
As   the   leader  led   out  in   the   anthem 

His   voice   was   caught  up   by  a   score, 
Each  word  added  strength  to  the  chorus, 

And  soon  were  forty  voices  or  more; 
"O,   say   can   you   see — "   the   beginning, 

"By   the    dawn's    early   light — "   the   first   line, 
"What  so  proudly  we  hail — "  how  they  knew  it  I 

One   hundred   people   could   sing  it   so  fine. 
"Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars — "  now  sixty 

Were   joining   in   the   beautiful   strain, 
"O'er  the   ramparts   we   watched — "  added   thirty, 

There  were  ninety  to  sing  the  refrain. 
/"Were    so    gallantly    streaming — "    just    eight    more 
Ninety-nine    were    singflng   that    anthem, 
Come   in   on   the   last  four  words, 


(72) 

Just    ninety-nine    voices    were    heard. 
But   one   hundred   arose    at   the   bidding, 

Ah,    some    one    was   a   slacker   I   fear; 
Someone's   voice   was   not   in   the   chorus, 

It  was  a  gray  ha' red  man  in  the  rear. 
He  had  just  "happened  in  to   the  nieetin"" 

He  limped  as  he   entered   the   door, 
It  was  true  that  he   made   quite  a  clatter 

As  he  whacked  his  cane  down  on  the  floor, 
He   was  trembling,   tottering  and  feeble, 

'Cross  his  temple  a  terrible  scar, 
He  wore  on   his   coat   a  brass   button, 

And  its  letters  were  G.  A.  R. 
There   he   stood  in   silence   and  reverance, 

Well  he  knew  every  word  of  that  song; 
A  flood  of  memory  rushed  o'er  him, 

Of   the    days    that   were   long   agone. 
''The    rocket's    red    glare — "    how    that    thrilled    him. 

He    could   hear   those    "booms    bursting   in    air" 
'Twas   down   on   the   front,   at   Fort   Sumpter, 

The   old  veteran  was  with  the   flag  there. 
With   a   hundred   he'd   guarded   those   ramparts. 

Where  the  flag  had  been  hoisted  to  fly: 
If  it   ever  went  down   in   the   conflict 

He  would  put  it  back  up  there  or  die. 
He  had  stood  in  the  ranks  at  Bull  Run, 

The  bullets  came  whizzing  so  near, 
It  was  many  that  fell  all  around  him, 

Their  cries — ,  to  this  day  he  can  hear. 
And  there  by  the  sfde  of  his  comrades 

He'd  watched  through  the  "perilous  night," 
Thank/,    God,    Old    Glory   was    waving, 

He  could   see   by  the  "dawn's   early  light." 
"Oh  say  does  that  Star  Spangled  Banner  yet  wave — " 

Many   voices   were    singing  that   hymn, 
And  here   at   the   end   of  the   stanza, 

A   shaky   old   voice  joined   in. 


(73) 

Many  heads  were  turned  to  discover 

Just  whose  was  the  voice  they  could  hear, 
Ah,   'twas  he;  indeed  they  all  knew  him, 

That  gray  haired   man   in  the   rear. 
All   sang   the   first   verse,    'twas    so   thrilling, 

That    one    hundred    knew    it    by    heart; 
But  now,  for  the  second — they  wavered, 

Not  even  the  leader  could  start. 
But  a   school   boy  came  to   the   rescue, 

His  voice  was  so  wonderfully  clear, 
And  just  in  a  moment  another 

It  was  that  aged  man  in  the  rear. 
"On  the  shores  dimly  seen — "  they  knew  it 

Just  two  in  that  hundred  was   all, 
And  the  others  respectfully  listened, 

Ninety-eight   in   that   ramsliackled   hall. 
The   boy,   he   stood   in   the   front   row, 

He  felt  a  little  doubt,   and   a  fear, 
But   now,    ah    some    one   was   helping, 

He  could  hear  a  cracked  voice  from  the  rear. 
But   why  to   this   one  boy  familiar? 

Others  were  at  the  meeting  that  day, 
Ju«t  because  he  had  been  so  unruly 

Recess   for   a  week  he   must  pay. 
And  because  he  must  never  be  idle, 

"You  may  memorize  this  poem,"  teacher  said, 
And  long  before  that  week  was  over, 

He  had  stored  every  word  in  his  head. 
But  why  should  the  other  one  know  it — 

That  old  man  back  there  in  the  rear? 
Why  the  simplest  reason  of  any,,,. 

He  followed  that  flag  many  a  year. 
He  had  been;  right  in   the   beginning 

Was  in  the  thick  and  the  last  of  the  fray, 
And  because  he  defended  Old  Glory, 

A  scar  and  that  limp  for  his  pay. 
So   'twas   only   two  knew   that   anthem, 


(74) 

They  knew  each  verse  through  and  through; 
One  learned  in  a  musty  old  school  room, 

The   other   out   in   the   midst   and   the   dew. 
As    on   down   the   verses   their   voices 

(Could    scarce    be    said    that    they'd    blend) 
"That    Star    Spangled   Banner   in   triumph    shall   wave — " 

They  had   finished   it  through  to   the  end. 
And   never  before   had   they  heard   it, 

That  song  that  they  all  held  so  dear, 
As  'twas  sung  by  that  happy  young  school  boy 

And   that   gray  haired   man   in  the  rear. 
There    were   just   ninety-eight   resolutions, 

Made,   as   the  chairman  said   "We  adjourn" 
Ninety-eight  whispered  this  promise 

"Every  word  of  that  song  I  will  learn." 
And  now  for  the  flag  and  the  country 

The  young  man  will   stand  without  fear, 
In  the  front  ranks,  where  once  did  those  veterans 

Who   will   watch   and   pray  from   the   rear. 


THREE   SORROWS 

I   saw  youth  when  all  he  held   dear 

Lay   prone   on   a   funeral   bier, 

Be  refused  to   mourn,  he  laughed  to  scorn 

The   grief  that   was   lingering   near. 

The  gladsome  heart  could  not  infold 

The    sorrow   fate   offered    so   bold. 

T   saw  maturity  walk  with   the  pall, 
The   cortege   of   the  heart's   all   in   all; 
Sobered   and   bowed,   wrapped    in   the   cloud 
Of   sorrow    fate    decreed    must    fall. 
Time   alcne   could  bring  soothering  balm 
The  tumult  of  his  soul  to  calm. 


(75) 

I  saw  age  pause  by  an  open  tomb, 

And    there    settled    a    lasting    gloom, 

That  void  in  his  heart  nevermore  would  depart, 

All    gladness   his    grief   would    consume. 

With  no  future  to  swiftly  outrace, 

Sadness  became  fixed  in  place. 


GREATER  IS  LIFE  THAN  DEATH 

An  open  grave,  a  pile  of  displaced  earth, 
There  set  beside  it  a  box  of  costly  worth, 
Flowers,    profusely   heaped,    bouquet   and    wreath, 
Covering  brace  and   straps  placed  underneath, 
Lay  a  common  spade  its  work  but  half  complete 
No  power  of  its  own  to  perform  a  feat, 
Neither  that  which  lies  beneath  that  lid 
Hath  pwer  to  move,  nor  friends  a  farewell  bid. 

Crept   a   cricket!    long   that   disheveled   mound 
And  leaped  across  that  fissure  in  the  ground1, 
It  multiplied  its  length   as   man  to  mile, 
Escaped   from  harm,  and  yet  it  lives  a  while, 
Far  more  that  cricket  with  its  life  and  power 
Than  dust  or  spade  or  box  or  grave  or  flower. 


THE    WONDERFUL    FUTURE 


How  wonderful  is  the  future, 

How   pitiful    is    the   past; 
One  dismissed  as  uneventful, 

On  the  other  a  glamour  cast. 
Two   days    so   closely  related, 

The  morrow  so   full   of  hope; 
The  yesterday  and  its  failures 

Unworthy  of  any  note. 


(76) 

How   attractive  is   the   future, 

Where  realizations   abound; 
Some    where    in    its    luring    embrace 

Contentment  of  heart  is  found. 
With    longing,    striving   and    planning 

We  forget  how  soon  and  fast 
Each   day  of   it  is   swallowed 

Up  by  the  pitiful  past. 

We  greet  the  hours  of  the  future, 

We  hold   them  but  just  a  day; 
And  ponder  not  on   their  value, 

But   those   which   beyond   them  lay. 
We  dream  of  a  day  yet  distant, 

Forget  in  living  it  through 
'Tis  part  of  that  wonderful   future 

Made  tame  by  nearness  of  view. 

Comes  a  time  when  all  the  planning 

And  disappointments  lie  behind, 
And  yet  'tis   not  for  a  moment 

We've   known  content  of  mind; 
When   longing   turns    to   retrospect 

Pace  to  face  with  truth  at  last 
Beyond  is  the  wonderful  future 

And   this  is   the   pitiful   past. 


MT.    SHASTA 

Standing   so   still   the   ages   through, 
Resplendent   in   that   distant   view; 
Magnificent   in  all   thy   size, 
Outlined    against    the    azure    skies. 
What  mighty   forces   did   create 
That  piece  of  handywork  so  great? 


(77) 


• 

•    - 


Yet  not  more  wonderous  is  thy  size 
Than  perfection  that  upon  thee  lies, 
What  mind   conceived   thy   stately  grace, 
And  chose  to  set  thee  in   that  place 
With   harmony   the   tie   between 
Improves  when  from   the   distance   seen 

Could  my  work  stand  apart  like  you, 
And  give  to  me  that  distant  view, 
As   it   will   stand   for   other   eyes, 
In   comparison  a  mote   in   size; 
Would  I  see  there  just  a  part 
Of  the   perfection   that   thou  art? 


UNDER   THE    CHANDELIERS 

Heartless,   blue-cold,    cutting   glare, 
Diamonds   posed   in  amber  hair; 
Colorless    wtith   eyes   of   blue, 
Diamonds],   tempered   not  for  you. 

Fervent,   brilliant,   glittering  glare, 
Diamonds   poised   in  raven  hair; 
Toned  for  eyes  of  blackest  hue, 
Diamonds  mined  and  made  for  you. 


- 


Music  is  sound  bedecked  so  gay, 
Poetry  is   words  at  play. 


Run   and   the   world   runs   with   you, 
Walk  and  you  walk  alone. 


(78) 

Nature  never  did  create  a  law  that  opposed  the 
instincts   of   her   children. 


Better   serve   in   a   well   ordered   household 
As  be  a  guest  in  the  home  of  confusion, 

Better  live   in  humble  obscurity 
As  be  a  ruler  and  have  no  seclusion. 


Happiness   in   all   her   beauty, 
In  her  faith   and   tryst   toward   duty; 
In   youth,   in   age    or   in   her   prime, 
Stands  subject  to  the  call  of  time.- 

The    Vail    of    Mist. 


YB   12026 


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